100 Days of Blam
by StoriesLiveForever
Summary: Blaine Anderson walks through the school day like a ghost, friendless, keeping to the shadows. Until one day, he meets the new kid, Sam Evans.  100 drabbles detailing the friendship and quasi-romance of Sam and Blaine.
1. Introduction

_Author Notes: So a few days ago my sister showed me a list of 100 one-word prompts she was writing for Niff. After taking a look at it, I figured the list was perfect for a Blam storyline, and this is the beginning of the end results. Also because I miss Sam a lot more than I thought I would. Just to clarify, **I do not own the list of prompts, I have no idea where they came from. **Props go to my sister for finding it and making me read it**. **This is the beginning of what will hopefully be 100 little Blam drabbles; I'm going to try my best to make them a cohesive story, but beware of random fluff and angst and vaguely possible awkward stumbling smut throughout the course of it. Thanks for reading!_

**I. Introduction**

Blaine hurried through the halls with his head down, hugging his binders to his chest in a desperate attempt to protect them. He stared down at his feet, one in front of the other, breath in and out, tile by tile, only two more turns until the safety of his Film Studies classroom, come on come on come on…

Only one turn left when someone shoved him into the wall and another someone knocked the books out of his shaking arms. It was a lightning-fast event, almost silent save for the loud _thud _and the few snickers the larger boys gave before running past Blain to link arms with a pair of girls waiting farther down the hallway.

He stayed where he was on the floor for a minute, leaning against the cold concrete blocks of the wall, allowing himself to regain composure. He didn't squeeze his eyes shut, he didn't cry like he used to, he only breathed. In and out, chest up and down. Heart beating. He gazed at his things lying open on the floor; the rings of his biology binder had snapped open with the impact and strewn its contents a quarter down the hallway, eliciting an exasperated groan from Blaine's throat.

"Hey, are you okay?"

It took a second for Blaine to realize the tone of the voice—not derisive, not mocking, but genuinely concerned. He stared at the sneakers in front of him, then slowly raised his eyes to meet the owner's.

He was greeted with a large albeit nervous smile, crinkled light hazel eyes with lightish brown bangs sweeping into them. The boy reached up to anxiously rub at the back of his neck before holding out his other hand to Blaine.

It had been a long while since Blaine had been left breathless by anything, but now he found it hard to keep his lungs working.

"Y-yeah," he choked out, taking the boy's hand and allowing him to haul him to his feet. "I'm fine. Used to it." And Blaine averted his eyes to scan the floor for his biology notes.

"I'm Sam Evans." And the boy took a neat pile of papers from where they were clamped under his arm, holding them out to Blaine. "I'm new here."

He took them with shaking hands, still trying to slow his heart rate. "Blaine Anderson. I'm…not new here." A nervous little laugh. "But it's nice to meet you. I'll show you around sometime?"

He quickly collected the rest of his books and spun on his heel before he could say anything stupider, once again hurrying down the now-empty hallway.

"Wait." Sam's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Sorry…can you show me where the Film Studies room is?"

Blaine suppressed a smile as he turned back towards Sam Evans. "Yeah," he said, more confidently than he actually felt. "Yeah, I think I can do that."


	2. Love

**II. Love**

The first time the word casually flitted through his brain, Sam was terrified.

He stared at the smaller, darker-haired boy sitting across from him, hands wrapped around a medium coffee cup. The innocent little syllable danced behind his eyes: _love. _Love. Did he love Blaine?

He bit his lip and thought. Well, he did love the way the curls on Blaine's head grew all over the place and fell into his eyes no matter how many times he pushed them back. He loved the way Blaine never properly put the top on his paper cup so that it was always in danger of being knocked over, the way he talked with his hands as much as his lovely voice. Loved the way Blaine looked up at him through dark eyelashes. The quick hugs goodbye when they both went home after hanging out. He loved the rare occasions when Blaine ran up to him after school in an impossibly good mood, bouncing around like a Chihuahua on helium, high on simply living. When they took walks together and Blaine showed him which places were safe, which ones riddles with kids from school. When Blaine sang for him and tried to get him to join in.

Sam was certain he loved all of those things. But did he love _Blaine?_

Was it possible for him to love another boy?

"Are you okay?" The musical voice pulled him out of his jumbled thoughts; they were like words on paper, the way they mixed together, switched places, confused him to no end.

"Yeah, I'm good." Sam flashed a bright smile, but he could tell Blaine wasn't fully convinced as he eyed him from behind the raised coffee cup. "What?"

"You've just been awfully quiet today." Blaine shrugged. "I haven't heard a Star Wars reference in over two hours."

Sam loved that about Blaine too: how he knew him, accepted him for all his dyslexia and nerdiness and slight infatuation with science fiction flicks.

"Maybe I'm a little tired," he answered, unconsciously mimicking Blaine with a shrug.

"Hey, it's almost Friday!" Blaine said brightly, hopping up from his seat to throw his now empty cup in the garbage; his curls bounced in a way that was both comical and adorable, and again that word worked itself into Sam's conscious thought, momentarily paralyzing him.

When he recovered, he smiled and replied, "But it's only Tuesday, Blaine."

"So?" The other boy pulled him to his feet and linked their arms together. "Come on, I'll walk you home."

"You don't have—"

"I'll walk you home."

Flash of a nervous smile. "Okay. Let's go."


	3. Light

**III. Light**

"The gym? With you?"

Sam smiled at Blaine's obvious apprehension. "Why not? That's like the one place you haven't shown me yet."

"I don't know…" Blaine's mind filled with images of the local gym, the complex-looking machines, the intimidatingly clothed people, and the group of older boys from school who hung out there. "I've never really been."

"You've never worked out?"

"I have. Just…not where I could run into people I know. My dad set up some stuff in the basement a few years ago…I normally use that."

It took about a day's worth of "why nots" and "it'll be funs" before Blaine relented and suddenly found himself appraising dumbbells while Sam lay down on a bench.

"Getting a little ambitious there, don't you think?" Sam joked as Blaine picked up a sixteen-pound weight.

"Watch yourself, Evans," Blaine quipped, beginning a rep of quick bicep curls. "I may be small, but I'm…" He involuntarily trailed off as his eyes caught Sam's.

"Really, really small," Sam laughed, hazel eyes crinkled with a smile.

"Pssh. I bet I could bench you." Blaine puffed out his chest in a ridiculously dramatic show of bravado. He tried to keep his lips from quirking into a grin but failed miserably.

"Oooh, tough talk," Sam chuckled. "I could bench you plus Stacey and Stevie, easy. How much do you weigh, anyway?" Then his eyes widened slightly and his tone changed, suddenly gravely serious. "No wait, sorry, personal question, you don't have to—"

Blaine interrupted him with a bright, amused laugh. "If you must know, Mr. Body Builder, I am a whopping one hundred and fifty pounds."

Sam regained his teasing demeanor and snorted in fake derision, eyes sparkling with laughter. "Oh, benched. Easy."


	4. Dark

**IV. Dark**

Blaine sat with his legs pulled up to his chest, head resting on his arms. There was a tiny bit of light streaming in from the tiny space between the door and the floor; other than that, the claustrophobic room was completely black. It smelled dim and damp and dismal mixed with window cleaner and Fabreeze, and he hated it more than anything he'd ever smelled in his life. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears to go away, stay down where they belonged. Blaine had promised himself he wouldn't cry around the same time he promised he wouldn't try the doorknob again. There was no use to either.

He found himself wishing _if only Sam were here _but immediately hated himself for thinking it. If Sam were there, he'd also be stuck in this sickening place, too small even for Blaine, smelling this awful smell and getting sore from sitting on the ground. Besides, Sam was busy this afternoon with football practice. Somehow he'd convinced Coach Kelly to let him on mid-season, but as a result had to work extra hard if he wanted to be anything but a water boy. That meant more time at practice, more time after games, less time for coffee and movies and the gym and Blaine.

And no time for him to save Blaine from the janitor's closet in which he'd been unceremoniously thrown and locked after the last bell.

So he sat there in the darkness, amusing himself with songs murmured under his breath, praying to any god that would listen for someone to find him, preferably before the late bus left.

He figured this was what he got for being too lazy to charge his phone and allowing it to die.

He didn't know how long he sat cramped in the closet, but after what felt like hours there was the sound of a key in the lock, and the doorknob turned with a soft squeak.

_Sam?_

He knew it was a stupid thought, but his face still fell slightly when the door opened to reveal one of the school janitors. The middle-aged man's mouth dropped in surprise as Blaine darted past him with a rushed "thank you."

He ran as far away from the closet as he could, as fast as he could. Down the hallways, through the old double doors, out into the parking lot…where the late bus was just pulling out.

Blaine considered racing after it, but decided his legs, cramped and aching from being bent for so long, wouldn't be able to take any more. Besides, getting on that bus would only mean more torment: one of the boys who had grabbed Blaine after school now stuck his head out of a window near the back.

"Finally come out of the closet, I see," he yelled with a snort of laughter. "Took you long enough."

Blaine wanted to rage, to storm, to sprint after the bus and scream after him, but he was simply too drained to act on the impulse. Instead his arms hung loose at his sides, his shoulders drooped, and he said softly, "So what if I am? What's it to you?"

And he turned to start the long walk home, selfishly wishing once again for Sam, for someone who could share the dark storm cloud hanging over his head.


	5. Rot

_Author Notes: So Sam does seem very out of character in this one-almost the opposite of his desire in canon to be popular and all that-but please keep in mind this is before the McKinley storyline, and that people change with events. Also, I'm going to say this now so I don't forget to mention it in the future: I'm not adhering to their canon ages. For all intents and purposes for this story, I see them as juniors, which doesn't fit with the canon storyline. So think of this as an AU?_

_'Tis all. Thank you for everybody who's read! It means a lot, and I don't know what to say but thank you thank you thank you._

**V. Rot**

In this place, it was easy to rot. Sam knew it from watching Blaine, noticing the way he withdrew inside himself whenever they stepped foot into the school together. It was like he pressed a button and literally turned off his personality, switched to autopilot, withheld the sparkling eyes, the witty little jokes and random bursts of songs.

In all honesty, it scared Sam to no end. If he didn't know better, he would have thought it impossible to do that to someone as luminescent as Blaine, but this school—or more specifically the people in the school—had found a way to snuff him out.

And despite everything, Blaine refused to talk about it. And that made Sam angry.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Blaine whispered, throwing up his hands. His voice was a hiss in order to go unnoticed, but his wild gesturing rendered the effort obsolete. Thankfully, the film Studies teacher was too completely engrossed in _The Wizard of Oz_ to notice the two boys in the back.

"I don't _want _you to say anything," Sam sighed. "I think you _should_, is all. There're things you need to talk about. I'm here to listen."

"I'm fine." Blaine turned away to scribble something in his notebook. "Leave me alone, I'm trying to take notes on the flying monkeys."

"Come on." Normally, Sam didn't think he would be pushing so hard. But this wasn't a normal situation, not in his eyes. No one deserved to deal with this alone. Hell, no one deserved to deal with this at all. "Blaine, please—"

"Sam."

His heart gave an involuntary skip, like it always did when Blaine said his name. Just his name, nothing else. _Sam._

Blaine took a deep breath and continued. "Sammy. I appreciate your concern, I really do. And I'm flattered that you genuinely want to help me. But what do you think you're going to do?" He was bent over his notebook, not looking at Sam, moving his pencil in an absentminded circle on the otherwise blank page. "These kids mess with me because they _think _I'm gay—they don't even know for sure."

Sam forced down a smile as a memory surfaced in his brain.

_Sammy, can I tell you something?_

_ What would you say if…._

_ I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier._

_ Really? Wow, uh…thank you. You know, for understanding. Not being weirded out, you know._

He was pulled back to reality by Blaine's now bitter voice. "Do you honestly think they'd leave you alone if you tried to stand up for me? You'd be marked, you'd be—_contaminated, _too. Even more than you already are for associating with me. And that's not worth it. You actually have a chance here."

"What do you mean?" Sam watched the smaller boy hunch over in his chair, lower and lower until he looked tiny.

"You can be above all the shit here. You're on the football team, you've done nothing to suggest you're anything but straight, and you're uh, you're pretty attractive, if you don't mind me saying so. You don't have to be involved in what goes on in the…lower part of the food chain."

Sam stared at Blaine, aghast. His heart hammered in his chest, and he was becoming dizzy from the whirlwind in his brain. _Nothing but straight…pretty attractive…attractive…you're pretty attractive…_

"Sam?"

He gave an unnoticeable jump and a small cough. "Sorry…Blaine, I can't believe you would say that. You know I wouldn't just up and leave you…I can't. You're my best friend."

Blaine looked at him for the first time and—was he crazy, or was a blush creeping into his cheeks?

"Thanks," he said with an almost-smile, then turned back to his notebook. "Now shut up, I have to take notes on the aesthetic symbolism of the flying monkeys."


	6. Break

**VI. Break**

There was the thud of two bodies hitting each other, the crack of colliding helmets, a loud yell, a whistle. A body on the ground, gasping breaths.

Blaine pushed himself through the crowd, unable to see over the heads of the people in front of him. "Move," he said under his breath, almost unconsciously. "Move move move I need to see…"

The crowd ignored him, but he managed to slip to the edge of the platform at the bottom of the bleachers, where the football field spread before him. It was a sea of churned-up grass slick with mud, of people unrecognizable behind facemasks and shoulder pads, gold and blue uniforms.

But there on the ground, that was definitely Sam. Blaine didn't know how he knew—was it the way he turned his head, the movement of his leg as he bent it at the knee?

A panic gripped Blaine's heart like the hand of a corpse, digging its cold fingernails in, drawing blood. Images whirled in his head—Sam's neck snapped, incurable paralysis which wait no he just moved that's ridiculous, fine then concussion, permanent short-term memory problems, amnesia, a coma—

Then a teammate held out a hand, Sam gripped it to pull himself to his feet, and the sound of relief that escaped Blaine was so audible people turned to stare at him. He ignored them, though, and kept his eyes plastered on Sam as his teammates knocked him on the helmet a few times, then took their positions at the line of scrimmage.

Blaine couldn't help but smile when he heard Sam call out the play, then shout, "Break!"

He caught the ball as it was snapped to him, took a few light steps, and hurled it in a perfect spiral to his wide receiver.

Blaine let his grin grow bigger. That was his Sam, who'd worked so hard for his spot on the team. That was his quarterback.


	7. Heaven

_A little musical fluff for you :D_

**VII. Heaven**

The strum of guitar strings hummed through the room and settled in the air like a mist. It clung to the walls and frosted the windows in a pleasant coating of melody, collected on Blaine's eyelashes until he blinked it away.

Sam tried to keep his eyes on the other boy's fingers as they moved fluidly along the fret board, but time and again they flicked upwards to Blaine's face. His expression was so resolute, so adorably focused as he gazed down at the guitar that Sam couldn't bring himself to look away; he tried to turn his attention to the guitar in his own arms, but Blaine had him trapped in a complex web of notes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Blaine asked without looking up, the hint of a grin in his words.

Sam gave a little cough to hide his surprise and slight embarrassment. "You're, uh, you're really good." He hoped a blush wasn't visible on his cheeks.

"So're you." Now Blaine looked up at him, focused the full extent of his music-filled irises on him. "You never told me you played so well."

"Neither did you," Sam replied, absently strumming a chord. "What was that you were just playing?"

"Oh." Blaine began picking it again, filling the room with its sweet jump of notes. "It's nothing really, I made it up kind of by accident the other night." His eyes flicked to Sam's, and there was something bashful in them, something strangely shy. "Sometimes I think about things and my fingers just kind of move, and sometimes I like what they come up with."

Sam watched those fingers now, intrigued. "What were you thinking about?"

"Heaven," Blaine replied without missing a beat. Once more their eyes met; the melody played on. Light streamed through the window, reflecting in a glint off the silky wood of Blaine's guitar. And Sam couldn't stop staring.

"Heaven?"

"Well, yeah." Blaine shrugged. "Not like in the religious sense. It was more like…you know, when people say 'I am in Heaven' or 'that would be Heaven.' What does that mean? And when I say that, what am I talking about?" He gazed into the sunlight, and still the song flowed from his fingertips. "I know it's stupid—"

"No," Sam automatically interrupted. "That's awesome, actually. Do you…are there any words to it?"

Blaine shook his head. "Not yet. I tried, but they didn't work out. I just have the title."

"Which is?"

Blaine smirked at him. "'Heaven.'"

"Oh."

They laughed then, together, and it mingled in the air with the pretty pattern of notes, seeped into the painted wood of the walls, landed lightly once again on Blaine's lashes. And again, Sam found himself trapped by the beauty of it all. Unable to look away from the guitar, from the movement of the strings. From Blaine.

And that night, after the guitars had been placed snugly in their cases, after Blaine had gone home, after Sam had showered and put on pajamas and walked into his bedroom once again—that was when it hit him. Blaine's melody exuded from the walls where it still clung, danced around the room as if to greet him, to welcome him back. As it swirled around him and carried him to bed, its name danced along with it. _Heaven._

Blaine.


	8. Away

_So I don't really know what to say about this one. I'm not a huge fan of it, but I think it's important to have a little bit of Sam introspection apart from Blaine, even if it's not handled in exactly the way I initially intended for it to happen, and also a little Sam backstory. And yes, I made up some quick OCs kind of on the spot; don't worry that they're totally personality-less because they probably won't be reoccurring. **Warnings: Underage drinking.**_

_Also, I'm sorry for taking longer than usual to get this one up._

**VIII. Away**

If Sam thought stepping away for a week would calm the confused flurry in his brain, he was tremendously disappointed. Going back to visit California, instead of quieting the thoughts, intensified them to the point where he painfully missed Ohio.

Because California, his home for the past three years, no longer felt like _home. _And once he pinpointed the reason, it simultaneously baffled him and made all the sense in the world: Blaine. Funny, short, sweet, curly-haired Blaine, who spilled his coffee and hid from bullies and broke into a Top Forty whenever it was safe. Blaine, to whom he'd reached out that fateful day in early October, who'd taken his hand and pulled himself up from the ground.

_That _was home, and that was what Sam missed more than anything, what wouldn't leave him alone even in the midst of old friends he hadn't seen since September.

"Hey Sammy, you okay?"

He shook himself away from the nagging whirlwind of certainty and doubt and mustered a smile. "Yeah, I'm good. Just a really weird feeling being back here, you know?"

Melissa shook her head at him in mock disappointment. "You think too much, Evans," she said with an overdramatic flip of her long blonde hair. "It's your last night before you go back to Nowhere Land, and here you are worrying about _feelings." _She stuck her tongue out at him playfully.

"Yeah, let's go have some fun!" Andrew sprang up from the couch and punched Sam in the arm. "Let's go, kid!"

His enthusiasm reminded Sam of Blaine, and he smiled. "Where are we going?"

Melissa, Andrew, Mitch, and Angela grabbed him and pulled him to his feet, all with mischievous grins and glints in their eyes.

Sam was not surprised in the least when they good-naturedly dragged him out of the house and into Mitchell's car, and even less so when they pulled up to the club that was already shaking and pulsing with music.

Getting in was as easy as Sam remembered it being: walk up to the doors, look cool and unimpressed while Mitch nodded to the bouncers. Walk through the doors.

Getting drunk was even easier: take the drink Andrew handed him, down it, rinse and repeat. Drink and dance until his head spun, until he couldn't walk straight.

Anything to get away from the nagging in his head, the constant stream of questions and baffling answers. The thoughts of Blaine. The thoughts of his thoughts of Blaine.

And yes, it was also fun. It was wonderful being back with the group he'd been with for three years, falling back into old jokes and routines. But this time was different, because now there were the _thoughts._

Sam didn't blame Blaine at all; after all, the kid was just being himself. His smart, sparkling, spunky self. This was all Sam, Sam and his weird biology, Sam and his inability to decipher his own emotions, Sam and his questioned sexuality.

Because when Melissa threw herself at him in drunken tears, babbled something about how much she missed him, grabbed his face and caught his lips with hers, he didn't feel any different than he ever had pre-Blaine. A kiss from a girl affected him the same way it always had, and he felt normal.

It was only after Angela, who never drank, drove them all back and they collapsed once again on Mitch's couch that the thoughts started whirring again. Still drunk and confused, Sam had the worst feeling that he'd done something wrong, something punishable and offensive.

He felt as if he'd cheated, and not just for having fun without Blaine. He felt as if he'd betrayed the other boy somehow…by letting Melissa kiss him? Maybe. He couldn't tell for sure.

And then answers without truly formulated questions fired in his brain: maybe he was bisexual. Or homosexual, or pansexual. Or something. Or nothing.

He couldn't tell. But there in his old friend's basement, his head two inches away from Angela's feet, he did know two things for sure:

One—he missed Blaine a whole hell of a lot more than he'd anticipated.

And two—he needed to figure this out as soon as possible. Because someone like Blaine couldn't wait for someone like Sam, and he didn't know what he'd do if he let him slip away.


	9. Cut

_**Warning: implications of self-harm.**_

**IX. Cut**

"Hey."

"Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

Sam blinked at the defensive tone to Blaine's voice. "It just sounds like there's something wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. Well, I do miss you if that counts."

"I miss you too. I'm flying home tonight though, I'll see you at school tomorrow."

"Hey Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever—no, never mind."

"Blaine, what is it?" A feeling of fear was creeping into Sam's chest now. "You can ask me, whatever it is."

He heard a deep breath on the other end of the line. "Have you ever just had enough of everything and then you did something you thought would help but then it just made you feel worse…so you wanted to do it again?"

"Blaine, what are you talking about? Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm not sure, no." His voice had dropped to a strangled near-whisper. Sam knew the sound well, as everyone who has a smaller sibling does: it was the choked sound someone made when he was about to cry.

"What do you need me to do? It's impossible for me to come home sooner, but I can steal Mitch's computer, we can video chat if you want. Just—what do you need me to do?"

"It's okay," Blaine mumbled. "No, don't worry, I'm okay. Just keep talking to me."

"Did something happen? Are you hurt?"

"Got locked in the janitor's closet again, didn't get out until almost five. Nothing new, but today I just…" He blew air from his lips in exasperation. "It was just bad, today."

"Oh, Blaine." Sam closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "You know you don't deserve that, right? You've never deserved it."

"Then why do they do it?"

"Because they're scared of you."

A scoff. "Why would they be scared of _me? _I'm nothing to them. I'm just the gay kid to all of them."

"And that's exactly why they're terrified. You're not afraid to be who you are. They piss themselves if it's even hinted that they're different."

"Maybe it's better to be normal."

"Blaine, stop talking. You're amazing the way you are, and I know I sound like a broken record filled with clichés, but it's true and I'm not afraid to say it. And you can't be either."

"Sammy…I don't—"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," Sam interrupted, lips moving without conscious thought. Blaine had told him to keep talking, and he wasn't about to stop and let his best friend lapse into hysterics. "And I have something to tell you."

"What is it?"

"No, it has to wait until we're together. I can't do it over the phone. So you have to hold on until I get there, okay? No doing anything…drastic."

Blaine sniffed a small laugh. "You don't have to worry, believe me. I'm alright now."

"Good."

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

A pause. "Thank you."

Sam smiled against his cell phone, letting out a slow breath and hoping Blaine could hear it through the connection. And back home in Ohio, Blaine gingerly placed the knife back down on his desk as if it were an explosive and returned the grin, thankful to finally have someone who would listen.


	10. Breathe

**X. Breathe**

As soon as he caught sight of Sam, Blaine ran in a flurry of arms and legs and tackled him in a hug; it didn't matter that they were in plain view of half the student body, didn't matter that Blaine had to push past a crowd, didn't matter that people turned their heads to stare at him. For once he didn't care, because Sam was back and everything was okay again.

"I missed you," he breathed into the taller boy's shoulder, clutching him tightly. "I missed you a lot." His heart pounded and his breath came fast, as if he'd just sprinted a marathon.

Sam, on the other hand, was having trouble breathing at all, and it had nothing to do with how tightly Blaine was squeezing him. He searched for the words he wanted to say; finding none, he settled for holding Blaine against him a moment longer.

It was a quiet moment of bliss, and happiness, and _peace_—until someone unceremoniously bashed a shoulder into Blaine, sending him stumbling from the surprised Sam's arms and almost onto the floor. Sam caught him before he could fall all the way down.

He was startled, and upset, and angry, but he guessed he also understood; boys just didn't _do _these kinds of things. They didn't run to each other after only a week apart, didn't clutch at each other like they were the only human beings in the world, didn't stand in silence and breathe each other in right in the middle of the school's lobby. At least, they didn't in the minds of other boys. And as much as Sam hated it, he understood.

"Are you okay?" he said softly, still holding onto Blaine's arm even though he'd stopped stumbling.

"Yeah." Blaine shrugged off the incident with his shoulders.

The two looked at each other for a minute, eyes paralyzed, locked onto each other.

Then Sam blinked and shifted his feet. "I'm, uh, I'm going to go to homeroom, I guess." He raised hand to clasp Blaine's shoulder, but immediately thought better of it—there were still people staring at them—and instead reached up to uncomfortably run his fingers through his own hair.

Blaine nodded his head in silent understanding. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. I'll see you second period?"

Sam matched his quiet yet unconcerned grin. "Bet on it."

And he quickly walked away, pushing through the morning crowd of students, desperately wanting to both stay and get as far away as possible. He needed somewhere quiet, somewhere he could gather and sort out the mingled thoughts of happiness and anger and eyes and _Blaine _in his head. Somewhere he could breathe.


	11. Memory

_All I can say for this one is yes, finally! :D_

**XI. Memory**

"Hey Blaine?"

_Hey Mom? Dad?_

"Yeah?"

_What is it, dear?_

"About that thing I needed to tell you when I got home…"

"Oh yeah, I forgot! What was it?"

_Go on, Blaine. You can tell us._

"…you know you can tell me anything, right Sam?"

"Yeah."

_Yeah, I know. It's just…_

"So cough it up, silly!"

"Okay, well, so…"

_Um…._

_Go on._

"So lately I've been thinking, kind of a lot. And I don't know how exactly to put this, but…"

_Mom, Dad, I'm gay._

"I think I might be…not very straight."

_Oh, honey. Come here, it's okay, come here._

"Sam, that's awesome! Wow, yeah, I know how confusing this stuff can be…if you have any questions you'll talk to me, right? I'll try to help as much as I can."

"Wow, uh…thanks. Yeah, the thought's been bugging me for a while now. I should've come to you sooner."

"Bugging you?"

_It's okay, kiddo, don't cry. We'll help you get through this phase._

…_It's not a phase, Dad._

"Well, yeah. No, no, not in that sense, I have no problem with gay people. If I did why would we be best friends? It's just, I've been 'straight' my whole life, and this is just a really weird realization."

_Blaine, it's going to be okay._

_Not if you won't accept this. It's never going to be okay if you ignore who I am._

_Why don't you wait a bit before deciding anything, think on it a little more?_

"I know what you mean. But I'm here for you, okay? I always will be."

"Thanks. That's really cool of you."

_I have that '50s truck in the garage that still needs repairing…_

"Am I the first person you've told?"

"Yeah."

_Maybe we can go work on that. Get your hands dirty a little bit, clear your head._

"Thank you. You know, for telling me. I know how nerve-wracking coming out can be. And if it means anything, I'm really proud of you right now."

_No thanks, Dad. I'm sorry, but no matter how hard you want it to, nothing's going to change this._

"Thank you, Blaine. Yeah, it means a lot."


	12. Insanity

_You don't know how much I apologize for being so slow to publish this one. It's a longer one, but I hope you enjoy!_

**XII. Insanity**

Ever since Blaine had started walking to most of his classes with Sam, no one had bothered to trip him up or even "accidentally" bash into him in the hallways. It was as if having another person next to him somehow repelled the aggressive boys and laughing girls. The week Sam was gone was one of the worst in Blaine's life; sensing vulnerability, the usual bullies had converged on him tenfold.

So though Blaine tried not to be nervous when Sam had to stay for a minute after English and told him to go on so he wouldn't be late, his heart still sped up as he took the first few steps into the hallway. He felt himself naturally revert back to pre-Sam jitters; he was jumpy, nervous, he was head down and eyes averted to the floor. Step step step two more corners once again, step step step just get there and you're fine. It would be fine, it would be fine without Sam for just this one little walk. There was nothing to worry about.

At least, that's what Blaine kept telling himself until he felt the familiar weight of hands on his back, and he stumbled to keep from sprawling forward.

"Where's your body guard, princess?" The voice was filled with unmasked mirth, and all around him he heard the laughter echoed by others.

Pre-Sam Blaine would have let them push him down. Pre-Sam Blaine would have stayed on the ground until they got bored and left. Pre-Sam Blaine would have let his heart calm down a bit and then made his way to class, offering some poor excuse and taking a late demerit.

But he wasn't that Blaine anymore.

"Would you kindly tell me what the fuck you want from me?" he said in a loud hiss, whirling around to face the older boy with narrowed eyes. He almost quailed at the sight of him, large and muscled and probably very adept at throwing punches, but Blaine held his ground and stared into his face.

The boy stared back in absolute silence. A small crowd had gathered around the two of them by now, emitting a mixture of murmurs and snickers.

"No? Then get out of my way, asshole."

And Blaine, in a surge of previously unfathomable courage, attempted to muscle his way past the boy.

"You gonna take that from a girl, Ross?" a voice shouted from the back of the crowd with a loud laugh.

Ross ignored it, instead placing his hands on Blaine's shoulders and casually throwing him to the side; someone yelled as the students in front of the lockers dispersed in a frenzy, leaving room for Blaine to slam into the hard metal.

"What did you say to me?" Ross advanced on Blaine, a snarl that was anything but amused now on his face. "Do you want to say that again?"

Blaine smiled up at him from the floor. "I called you an asshole. Because no matter how much Mommy may lie to you, it's kinder to just tell you the truth."

He quickly rolled out of the way before Ross could aim a kick at his head. As soon as he sprung to his feet, though, the larger boy was right up against him, pressing him back into the lockers. Face inches from his own.

"You think," he hissed angrily, "You think you can waltz in here with that fairy walk and insult me to my face? Everyone knows, Blaine-y, everyone knows you're a _faggot—"_

"So what if I am?" Blaine cut him off loudly, projecting his voice through the hallway but never looking away from Ross's eyes. "Do you hear that, everybody? I'm gay. Are you happy now? Can you breathe easier knowing you were right all along?"

He mustered all the strength he could and pushed Ross away from him; both their eyes grew wide as he stumbled backwards into the ring of spectators.

"Blaine!"

Blaine whipped his head around, heart racing, bracing himself for another fight. What he wasn't prepared for was Sam running towards him, a gleam in his eye and a giant, lopsided smile on his face.

The crowd automatically separated itself as Blaine walked by, head held high even though his heart was threatening to drum right out of his chest. They met each other in the middle of the hallway, and Blaine didn't stop to think before throwing his arms around Sam in a bear hug.

"Blaine, that was awesome!"

And then neither could say why, or how, or when or where or who. All they knew was each other, racing hearts and blinking eyes and manic butterflies in their stomachs. They ignored the crowd of people staring at them, the teachers who were starting to peek around the doors at the commotion…and somehow, some way, somewhere, their lips met, soft and gentle and light and barely a touch, barely a brush, but calm and kind and wonderful all the same.

And then it was over, and people were staring, and someone jeered, and others followed, and Blaine couldn't tell if Sam's expression of shock was good or bad until he shifted on his feet, and "I have to go," and he turned, and he ran back down the hallway. Leaving Blaine all alone, trembling, five feet away from the laughing horde.

He blinked once, twice, prepared himself, then ran headlong into the throng. He twisted his torso and threw elbows, anything to break free to the other side, to make it out alive, to prevent himself from sprinting after Sam. He'd find him later. Right now, they both just needed to get far, far away from this insanity.


	13. Misfortune

**XIII. Misfortune**

Blaine did not call Sam that night.

He wouldn't.

He shouldn't.

He couldn't.

How could he have done that to Sam? Sam, the one person in his life who'd never done anything to harm him. He _knew _Sam was still coming to terms with everything, knew he still wasn't comfortable with it, knew he sure as hell wouldn't have wanted _that _to be seen by the worst possible people in _school _of all places. And there Blaine was, ignoring all that in one stupid, reckless moment of unforgivable unrestraint.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He stared at his phone for a full minute, fingers itching to punch in Sam's number. He stared, and swore, and finally flung it into a desk drawer. No temptation. No calling Sam, not after what Blaine had done. What he needed, what they both needed, was the room and time to think.

And so Blaine went through the motions of the afternoon and evening, homework and an almost silent dinner with his parents and studying for tests the next day, with an unpleasant weight in his stomach. He thought only of Sam, of his stricken face standing there in the hallway, of his retreating figure sprinting away from the poisonous laughter. He desperately needed to hear his voice, he needed to apologize, he needed to…

But no, Blaine thought acidly, if someone had condemned _him _to the social gallows, he wouldn't be too keen to speak to them any time soon.

So he kept his phone hidden away, moving it from drawer to drawer when the temptation was close to overpowering him. Anything to stop himself from further ruining Sam's life.

He drifted into a troubled sleep early in the morning, allowing the exhaustion of the day pull him away from the finer details of the Progressive era. The last sound he was aware of was the thud of his history textbook hitting the floor, though his dreams were dotted with the annoying buzz of a cell phone.

* * *

><p>"Dammit, Blaine," Sam murmured as he was once again directed to voicemail. He didn't want to do this, he really didn't want to do this…but he had to leave a message at least, didn't he? To let Blaine know…didn't he?<p>

The line beeped and waited for Sam to talk. He pressed the end button.

"Why did you kiss him?" he interrogated himself out loud. "Why there? Why then? Why couldn't you have waited to _talk _tohim instead of being a complete idiot about it? Did you see the look on his _face?"_

He punctuated his words with punches to the wall. He was an idiot, plain and simple. He was an idiot for kissing Blaine in that hallway in front of everyone. Wasn't the poor kid judged enough? Wasn't he bullied enough without something like that hanging over his head?

Okay. One more time.

_Beep._

"Hey, listen, Blaine. About today. I'm so sorry, I have no idea what I was thinking. You can…forget it ever happened, yeah, if you want. I'm so sorry, I never meant to…I'm sorry."

His words failed him, and he pressed end.


	14. Smile

**XIV. Smile**

The worst part about school the next day was the smiling. There was no derisive laughter, no jabbing insults as Sam had braced himself for…just smiles. Cold, calculating, conniving smiles, as if they were just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on him. For him to make one more mistake.

Sam smiled right back at them. It didn't matter that he felt like he was going to puke, that he could feel eyes boring holes into his whole body; he wasn't going to let them scare him. He just wasn't.

So he tried his best to ignore the bile rising in his stomach. He tried to ignore his swimming head. He tried to ignore the narrowed eyes and raised eyebrows. He tried to ignore the smiles, but It didn't work, and soon Sam found himself with his head down, eyes glued to the floor, hand gripping the strap of his backpack. And still he could feel them, drilling into his back as he made his way through the hallway, and the only thing he could think besides _get me out of here _was _I don't know how Blaine does this everyday._ He bit his lip as he opened his locker, trying to quell the nausea.

"Sam."

He breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar voice and almost smiled, until he looked into Blaine's face and the hurt mirrored there. "Blaine, I—"

"No, shut up," Blaine cut him off with a shake of his head. He spoke in a whisper, so low that no one else could hear. "Don't tell me it's fine, because it's not. And you have to believe me, because I am _so, so sorry, _and I'd understand if you never wanted anything to do with me ever again, I would push away everything I feel for you if you wanted, I would, and I—"

Sam slammed his locker shut with a loud _bang, _effectively silencing Blaine. He tried to remain serious, but his lips couldn't help but quirk into a smile.

"I cannot believe you just said any of that," he said, not bothering to whisper. Hey, he liked to think he was a nice kid; why give those people a few feet away a reason to strain their poor little ears? Before Blaine could respond, he continued, "_I _fucked everything up, Blaine, because I was too much of a coward to say what I actually wanted to you, and then I went and _kissed _you like it was no big deal, and _you_ shouldn't want anything to do with _me, _so what are you talking about?"

Blaine just stared at him with a blank face. "But…what?"

"You're saying you're not upset about yesterday?"

"No, but you should be—"

Sam didn't let him finish; instead, he threw his arms him and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"So I'm finally allowed to do that?" he asked breathlessly, eyes sparkling.

He watched as Blaine's face went from surprise to utter shock, to a blush, to a wide smile. "I mean, if you're sure you want to—"

"You don't know how much I do."

And this time it was the both of them, Sam leaning in and Blaine putting his arms around his neck, pulling him further down.

And it was incredible, and when they broke apart the sinister smiles of before had turned into retching noises and jeering calls and hurled insults, and neither of them could bring themselves to care as they turned and smiled at the onlookers.

"Hey everyone," Blaine called into the crowd, spurred on by a surge of untouchable joy deep within him. "Fuck off."

The shouts followed them as they walked away, but this time it was easy for Sam to ignore everything. Because Blaine was smiling up at him, and those eyes were crinkling as they laughed, and he was smiling the most beautiful smile Sam had ever seen.


	15. Silence

_Hello lovely people! These next two prompts in my mind are two connected scenes. I would say it's a continuous scene, but this one is from Blaine's POV and the next is from Sam's. I hoped to get both of them done today to post them in succession, but unfortunately some stuff came up and I wasn't able to write nearly as much as I would have liked. But anyway, here's part one of this duo._

**XV. Silence**

"Did you hear about Sam?"

"Dude, I _saw _it—"

"What happened to him, anyway? I thought he was cool—"

"They were always hanging around together—"

"Jeez, even the ones you'd never think, huh?"

"Don't go in there." Blaine caught Sam's arm as he made to push open the locker room door. "Do you hear what they're saying?"

"I do," Sam replied, steel in his eyes. He turned to Blaine. "That's why I _have _to go in there. If we're going to do this"—he gestured to the two of them—"and since it's way too late to hide anything, I have to go in there and face whatever they're going to say to me."

Blaine tried to keep the whine out of his voice and cringed when it failed. "Are you saying you would've wanted to keep it secret?"

Sam shot him one of those _are you serious _looks, cocking his head to the side as he said sarcastically, "Yes, Blaine, I'd be devastated if anyone found out. That's why I decided to kiss you in front of the entire school."

"Point taken." Blaine let go of Sam's arm, though hesitantly. "Go on, then. Just be careful, okay?"

He wished he could make Sam understand the fear that was creeping into his chest, the chills traveling up his spine. He knew this game; sure, it was a different board, but the players were all the same. Except Sam. Sam was the newcomer, and everyone knew that newcomers automatically started with a disadvantage.

"Fucking faggots. They're everywhere, man, I'm telling you—"

"Yeah, but guys, we know Sam, why does this make him any different?"

"Shut up, Brennan, no one asked you."

"Just saying."

"Just be quiet."

Blaine recognized this last voice, and another shiver ran up his back. Fuck. Ross.

He wanted so badly to once again grab Sam's arm as he pushed open the door, to hold him in place and plead with him to skip practice just this once, let it all simmer down before going into a locker room of all places, but the look of determination on Sam's face held him back. And so Blaine stood outside the door, strained his ears to listen.

What he heard as Sam marched into the locker room:

Absolute.

Silence.


	16. Spit

_I apologize for the delay in getting this one out!_

**XVI. Spit**

Sam was reminded of a science fiction horror flick the moment he stepped through the door. One of those robot ones, where machines take over the world and replace everyone's brain with cogs and wires. That's what it was like, watching every single head turn to him in one identical motion.

He stood there in the doorway for a second, letting the eerie silence of the moment wash over him. He tried to meet his teammates' eyes, to gauge any kind of response, but once again they were like robots: cold and unwavering in their unreactions.

So Sam simply looked away, focused his eyes somewhere on the far wall, and wordlessly made his way to his locker, all the while feeling the holes drilling into the back of his head. He willed his hands not to shake as he turned the dial on the lock, as he pulled out his practice jersey, peeled off his shirt, willed the silence to end, someone say something, anything…

That's when someone coughed.

And Sam whirled around.

"What?" he asked, plain and simple. Not hostile, not confrontational. Just coolly curious.

An awkward silence, followed by another awkward cough. Awkward eye contact. Awkward shifting feet.

"Do I really need to come out to you guys? Because I think I pretty much did that already."

Another silence, then—

"Listen, Evans." The angry outburst came from Sam's left, out of sight, and before he knew anything he was slammed into the row of gym lockers, and Ross Frye's face was inches from his own.

Sam reacted instinctively, violently pushing Ross away from him before the lockers even had a chance to rattle.

"I'm listening."

"You—" Ross regained his balance and started forward again, but seemed to change his mind at the last second.

"Right, you're listening? Then listen good: we don't need people like you around here. There's no place for people like you on this team."

"People like me, huh? People like what?"

"_Faggots."_ And he spit at Sam, eyes narrowed in genuine anger. It landed on the toe of his shoe and though Sam knew it was crazy, he thought he could feel it burn like acid.

He bit back the anger, held it on his tongue. "I wasn't aware you had the authority to say what kind of people are allowed to play football."

"He's team captain," someone called from the sea of uniforms scattered on the benches.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah? So is Cole. Shouldn't it be a collaborative decision?"

A glint appeared in Ross's eye, and he turned to the boy on the far side of the nearest bench. "What do you think, Brennan?"

A guilty feeling fought its way through Sam's anger at dragging Cole into the argument so unnecessarily. "Leave him alone, Frye," he said as Cole's face turned red. "Just because you have a problem with me doesn't mean everybody else has to."

"Oh really?" Ross turned his back on Sam to face the rest of the team. "Who's got a problem with Evans?"

Sam watched blankly as every single person raised his hand, some high and angry, others sheepish. Well, no, not everyone; Cole sat motionless in his place on the bench, refusing to look anywhere but the floor.

Ross turned back to him with a nastily triumphant grin on his face. "Point taken, Sammy? Now put a fucking shirt on." He snatched up Sam's discarded shirt and flung it at him.

Sam stared for a second, trying and failing to push back the hurt. "You know what, fine," he said, slipping the shirt back over his head. "I get it. I'll be back tomorrow. Mind telling Coach I can't make it today?"

And he strode back out of the locker room, back to where Blaine was listening at the door, frozen like a statue.

Sam walked by him with no acknowledgement other than to brush their hands together, hoping it would send enough of a message. He heard Blaine's footsteps as he followed him through the halls, out the door, and across the parking lot, but didn't say anything until they reached Sam's car.

"Failed mission."

"I'm sorry." Blaine placed a hand on his arm, and though this wasn't in any way a new occurrence, there was something different about his touch, something simultaneously hesitant and eager. It was as if he wasn't sure how to act after the decision made that day, and it made Sam smile in amusement.

"Come on," he said brightly, promptly pushing the locker room to the back of his mind. "Let's go out."

"Out?"

"Coffee, on me. Get in the car."

Blaine beamed and jumped into the passenger seat. Sam shook his head at his adorable enthusiasm and made his way around the front of the car, but paused before opening the door to surreptitiously drag his shoe on the side of the wheel, hopefully clearing it of Ross's spit.


	17. Blood

**XVII. Blood**

"Why did I not know you had a dog?" Blaine asked, crouching down and presenting the back of his hand to the small golden retriever. The puppy tripped up on oversized paws in a frenzied attempt to reach him, tongue lolling and tail wagging a million miles a minute. "He's so cute!"

"She," Sam corrected with a smile. "We just adopted her. It was Stacey's idea, she got it in her head and then wouldn't shut up about it until Mom and Dad said yes." He bent down to ruffle the dog's ears.

"What's her name?"

"Goldilocks!" Stacey skipped into the room, sunflower pigtails bouncing. "Like the three bears, because she's gold! Get it, Blaine?"

"Of course I do!" Blaine stepped away from Goldilocks to catch Stacey in a hug. "That's the best name ever."

"I know!" she squealed as Blaine spun her around. "She's the bestest puppy in the world, right Sammy?"

Sam laughed as Goldilocks nipped at his ankles. "If 'best' means 'most annoying but makes up for it with cuteness,' then we have a winner."

"Oh oh oh!" Stacey clapped her hands once in excitement, then dashed out of the room in a flurry of yellow.

Sam shrugged and shook his head when Blaine raised an eyebrow. "Don't ask me. She's crazy."

"But adorable all the same."

They both jumped, startled, as a loud crash resounded from the kitchen, a clattering of pots and pans on a linoleum floor.

Sam led the way into the kitchen, urgently running after his baby sister. "Stace! What happened?"

They found her standing on top of a chair, a box in her hands and an array of kitchenware strewn below her. Goldilocks barreled through Sam's legs and skidded to a stop right before bashing into the leg of the chair. She flailed in a flurry of paws and lanky limbs before resuming her frantic tail wagging.

"No, no, Goldie, not yet," Stacey reprimanded with a wag of her finger, then hopped to the ground and held the box out to Blaine. "Wanna feed her a treat? It's lots of fun." She shook a bone-shaped biscuit out of the box and tossed it to him.

Sam took one look at Blaine's face and could no longer contain his laughter. It was the look of someone who wasn't used to the commotion of little kids, especially one like Stacey.

Nevertheless, Blaine flashed her a genuine grin, took the biscuit, and held it out to the dog now lurking behind Stacey's legs.

Sam didn't see it happen, but Blaine's sharp hiss of, "ooh, ow," and the drops of blood that spattered the checkered floor were enough to silence his laughter.

"_Bad _Goldie, _bad!" _Stacey yelled, dragging her away from Blaine. She stopped to snatch up the treat that had clattered to the floor.

Blaine simply stood there, cradling one hand in the other. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked, guilt already filling his eyes.

"Of course not." Sam coaxed Blaine's hand into his own and inspected the bleeding bite marks. "I think she got scared by all the noise and was just trying to protect Stacey. Not your fault." He tore off a paper towel for Blaine and gently pushed him into a chair.

"Stay right there, put pressure on it, I'll be right back with band aids."

"I appreciate it, Dr. Evans," Blaine replied, then pretended to swoon. "You better hurry up before I bleed out."

Sam whacked him softly on the head but returned his joking grin. "Be right back."

Stacey lurked over to the side until Sam left the room, then made her way over to Blaine, Goldie at her heels.

"So how long have you two been in love?"

Blaine blinked. "What?"

She sighed in exasperation, as if Blaine were a hopeless case. "You and Sammy. Goldie's sorry, by the way, she didn't mean it."

"Tell her I forgive her," he replied. "But what were you saying about me and Sammy?"

She sighed again and rolled her eyes. "Look, I'm not dumb. I know how Ron and Hermione look at each other. I know how Han Solo and Leia look at each other. You and my big brother, you're just like that." She paused for a second to think. "Except you're both real."

Blaine could do nothing but stare. Stacey stared back, her gaze determined and unwavering.

"Alright." He took her hand in his unbitten one. "Can you keep a secret? No telling your mommy and daddy until Sam says so, okay?"

Stacey nodded fervently, eyes wide.

"Okay, so I think your brother and I have kind of loved each other for a long time, but we haven't said those exact words yet. And we've been going out for a little more than a week."

"Ha!" Stacey pointed at Blaine, as if she'd found a key piece of evidence to prove her theory. "I knew it! I _knew _Sammy loved you…even if you are getting blood all over our floor." She eyed the red droplets disapprovingly. "But that's okay. I like you, so it's okay."

"So you like that your brother and I are together?" Blaine asked curiously. "Even though we're both boys?"

Stacey stared at him, once again as if he were the village idiot, and said simply, "You love each other."

"What was that, Stace?" Sam hurried back into the kitchen, sidestepping pots and pans and one small golden retriever, and motioned for Blaine to hold out his hand.

"Nothing," said Stacey before Blaine could speak. "Can we clean up that blood, please?"


	18. Under

_Lots of thank yous to my sister (riker-rocky-ross-lynchlover795) for being the closest thing I have to a beta and giving me the courage to post this one._

**XVIII. Under**

Blaine had waited so long to be under Sam. All that time of thinking, and hoping, and imagining, and now here he was, eyes closed, hands scrabbling, heart beating, breath gasping, and Sam's warmth draped over him and body pressing into him and mouth on his neck and oh god yes this was so worth the wait.

"Sam," he breathed, and was that a _whine _in his voice?

"Hm," Sam answered, continuing to work at Blaine's neck.

Blaine's hips bucked involuntarily at the sound, and his nails dug into the fabric of Sam's shirt. Wait. What was that still doing there?

Blaine waited until Sam was done and had drawn back to admire the red mark left on his skin, eyes dark and lustful but smiling all the same, then began to kiss him, deep and slow and everything that a kiss like this should be.

Sam's breath hitched as the smaller boy's fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, slipped under and brushed the skin lying hidden beneath it.

"Sorry," Blaine murmured against his lips, not letting up. "Is my hand cold?"

"No, I—" Sam fell silent as Blaine gently bit his bottom lip. He pushed him back so they were now opposite of where they'd started, Blaine moving on top of Sam, who paused once again as Blaine tried to pull his shirt up even further.

"What's the matter?" Blaine breathed in his ear. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah." Sam's breath hitched again, but this time Blaine knew why when he licked the shell of his ear.

"Then come on. You can do mine after, is it a big deal?" Blaine didn't know where he'd dredged up this amount of confidence; it reminded him of that day, that day with Ross, that day with Sam running towards him and that day everything changed.

"No." Sam gasped as Blaine moved back towards his mouth, tracing his jaw line. "It isn't, it shouldn't be—"

"But it is." Blaine stopped his teasing, pushed himself onto his elbows and looked into Sam's eyes. "What's wrong, Sammy?" he asked in confusion. "You take your shirt off in the locker room all the time."

"I know," Sam replied with a sigh. "But this is…this is _you, _and I care so much what you think, and…"

Blaine silenced him with a fervent kiss. "Stop that right now," he said forcefully. "You're right, this is me, but why should that make you nervous?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. It just does."

Blaine twined their fingers together and pulled Sam up with him into a sitting position. "I think you're beautiful," he said softly, all attempts at seductive breathiness gone and replaced with what he hoped was the sincerity he felt. "You know that, right?"

Sam gave a weak smile, and his eyes flicked away in a blink. "Thanks. I just…you can, you can if you want to."

"Do _you _want me to?"

"Like you said, it's not a big deal." He grinned with a glint in his eye and traced the mark on Blaine's neck. "I'd be a jerk if I put _that_ on you and then didn't even let you take my shirt off."

"Here, what if I just…" And Blaine leaned in once more, pushing Sam back and back and back until he was once again lying on top of him and hands were scrabbling and teeth were clicking together and bodies squirming and comforting warmth resonating between them like bared souls and this, Blaine thought, this was all he needed. Right now, with cotton underneath him and under that, Sam, and under him, blankets. Right now, hands and lips and _together, _this was nothing short of perfect.


	19. Gray

**IXX. Gray**

"Care to tell me where you've been?"

Blaine jumped a foot in the air as the voice rang out in the living room. "Hi, Dad," he sighed, resigned to his fate.

"That doesn't answer my question," his father sniped. "Why were you out of the house at two o'clock in the morning?"

"Because I was?" Blaine kept a straight face but internally winced the moment the words left his mouth. Bad idea, always a bad idea to talk back to Dad, but he could never seem to stop doing it.

His dad's gaze turned even colder, eyes narrowing; in the dim moonlight streaming through the window they looked gray, matching his graying hair and gray face. In fact, Blaine realized, everything was gray right now: the walls, the plush carpet, the photographs in ornate frames adorning the mantel, everything whitewashed by the late hour and the tension filling the room.

"Where were you, Blaine?"

It was all Blaine could do to hold his gaze. "I was at Sam's."

"Doing what?"

"Just hanging out."

"At two in the morning?"

"Lost track of time."

He calmly made a break for the staircase, for freedom, but his dad caught his arm in a painful grip.

"What were you doing with this Sam?"

"None of your business, Dad," Blaine exhaled, closing his eyes in exasperation.

"Were his parents home?"

"No."

"What were you doing?"

"Nothing you want to hear."

"What were you doing?"

"Let me go."

"Blaine."

"What?"

"You might want to check your appearance next time. And don't be stupid enough to come through the front door."

They stared at each other, gray drilling into gray in the darkness. Blaine wordlessly tore his arm from his father's grip and walked up the stairs, resisting the urge to break into a run.


	20. Fortitude

_Not sure how I feel about this one, it's kind of eh to me._

_I apologize for the gap between prompts, this last week turned about to be a surprise hell week._

**XX. Fortitude**

Though Blaine had come to love watching Sam's football games, he couldn't help but feel happy that this was the last one of the season. He watched from the very top of the bleachers with a smile on his face, thinking of all the free time he and Sam would have to spend together now that the season was drawing to a close, all the coffee dates and movie marathons. And then there was the matter of Sam himself, and his struggles with the team since coming out as bi; though they'd grudgingly shut up about kicking him off after some stern looks from Coach Kelly, the resentment had only grown, leaving Sam miserable but still unwilling to quit. As he'd told Blaine, "I can't give in to them, what help would that be?"

So he'd stuck with it, endured the taunts and snickers and outright insults, and now here he was, so close to being done. It was a really a shame though, Blaine thought. Sam had really loved football before all this.

Blaine's heart no longer threatened to give out every time Sam made a move on the field, after all this time of watching him play. He knew when he got knocked down, he'd be back up again in less than a minute, ready to go. Even if the team he was giving his all for didn't appreciate it.

Right after Sam threw the ball the familiar sound of colliding helmets cracked in Blaine's ears, but he barely flinched as he was brought down. Sam took a moment to collect himself, then jumped back to his feet to rejoin the game, and though Blaine was happy, and had expected this, there was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't name it, couldn't place it until the end of the quarter, when the team trickled off the field, all laughing and chatting except for Sam. He hung back from the group, walking just that much slower in order to be set apart, and Blaine bit his lip as it hit him:

Before everything, before Blaine, Sam would have been helped up by his teammates. They would've pulled him to his feet, knocked him on the helmet, asked if he was okay. Now, they didn't talk to him, barely acknowledged him even as he threw complete pass after complete pass. They didn't apologize to him when they fumbled a perfect throw; in fact, Blaine suspected they sometimes did it on purpose.

"Stupid assholes," he muttered under his breath, earning sidelong looks from the spectators standing next to him. Nevertheless, Blaine was proud of Sam for sticking it out until the end, for always playing hard despite everything, for never losing his courage to words or taunts or cold shoulders.


	21. War

_Happy (late) Halloween!_

_Just a heads up-I'm participating in NaNoWriMo this year, which means it may be hard to keep up with these drabbles. I hope to keep going with them, though, and use them when I can't stand looking at my nano document anymore._

_Enjoy!_

**XXI. War**

"How did you beat me _again?"_ Sam good-naturedly threw himself onto the couch. "You're the first person ever to get me three times in a row."

Blaine dropped down next to him with a laugh. "Guess you found someone who's a bigger dork than you are."

The two had snuck into the play room as soon as Stacey and Stevie had left to run around outside, surrounded by Legos and dolls and video game cartridges and bowls of chips (which Sam never touched) and pretzels (which he did), to finally celebrate Sam's newfound freedom from the football team. And what other way to celebrate said freedom but with a good round or two or ten of Mario Kart?

Sam turned to Blaine with raised eyebrows. "Oh yeah? I bet I could beat you on Rainbow Road."

"Oh man, those are fighting words,"Blaine quipped, grabbing the Nintendo controller and setting his face in a serious expression. "Bring it on, Evans."

Sam gripped his own controller tighter and chuckled at Blaine's sincerity. "This is _war, _Anderson."

"You don't seem to realize how seriously I take my Mario Kart, sir," Blaine deadpanned, but his mouth twitched into a split-second smile that wasn't lost on Sam.

"Then by all means," he replied, "show me."

* * *

><p>"You can't do that! Overt misuse of a red shell!"<p>

"This is war, Sammy, you do what you have to do. And anyway, that's what those are _for."_

"That's so unfair! When I get stuck with a banana and you get something that will automatically let you pass me!"

"You're just jealous at how awesome I am at this game." Blaine bit his lip in concentration as his player zoomed around a bend, skimming the edge and just barely hanging on, and dammit why'd he have to go and be so adorable so close to the finish line?

"You win," Sam sighed as his Luigi toppled off the course and Blaine's Peach zipped through the checkered finish line, and still Blaine's face distracted him to no end. "Title of biggest dork conceded."

Blaine turned to focus the full blast of his beaming smile on him, and oh god their faces were so close, and Blaine's eyes were hazel today and sparkling with laughter and victory, and Sam's heart suddenly sped up as Blaine took the controller out of his hands and leaned into him and breath mingled and fingers twined together and—

"Sam?"

They both jumped away form each other, Blaine giving a startles little noise, both snapping their heads towards the door.

"…hi, Mom," Sam said in a strangled voice. "Uh, you remember Blaine…?"


	22. Mother

**XXII. Mother**

"Sam, why didn't you tell me?"

Sam averted his eyes from his mother's, and Blaine fought the urge to reach over and squeeze his hand. The inches of space between them seemed like a mile, and he hated not being able to help him, to just scoot over and wrap an arm around him. But Blaine held himself back, because the only thing more awkward than getting caught with your boyfriend was getting caught with your boyfriend by his _mother._

When Sam stayed silent and just kept staring at the ground, Mrs. Evans sighed. "Did you think I'd be angry? Or look at you any differently?"

"Do we have to do this now, Mom?" he asked softly, shooting a quick look to Blaine.

The poorly hidden, stricken embarrassment on Sam's face made Blaine's heart constrict; he had to make this better, he had to do something…he had to help.

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and opened his mouth to speak—and was immediately cut off.

"Yes, we do," she said firmly. "Because I'm very, very concerned about this."

All right, last straw.

"You're concerned?" Blaine asked acidly before she could go on, eyes narrowing, fighting the anger rising in his chest. "You're concerned about your son because he happens to not be straight?"

Sam shot him another look, but Blaine ignored the alarm in his eyes and kept going, barely preventing his voice from rising louder and louder. "Mrs. Evans, I'm sorry, but don't you think that's a little, no, extremely, bigoted? You seemed to like me just fine when I wasn't dating Sam—"

"Blaine, sweetheart." She cut him off loudly with an amused smile; Blaine's blood boiled at the sight of it. "Yes, I'm extremely concerned, and that's because Sam didn't feel like he could tell me. I probably missed everything! First date? First kiss? I need to know these things, Sam!"

Oh. Blaine felt the anger dissipate from his bones, felt his muscles relax into the couch. He turned to look at Sam, and saw a small, still-embarrassed smile growing on his face.

"I haven't suddenly turned into a gossipy girl, Mom," he said with a shy little laugh that made Blaine inch that much closer to him. "Why would you think I'd tell you any of that stuff?"

"But you didn't even let me know you had a boyfriend!" she replied, pointing an accusing finger at her son. "Do you know how much teasing I've missed out on? I could've had The Talk with you that much sooner!" Her voice trilled with glee as Sam groaned and let his head fall back into the couch cushion.

Blaine let out a laugh, remembering his own first Talk with his mother. There had been awful metaphors, laughable code words, _candy wrappers_ and _bananas_, and the thought of Sam enduring the same thing, that blush flaring into his cheeks, was too hilarious for words.

"Blaine!" Sam shot at him. "You're not helping me here!"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry." Blaine let his laughter die down, then turned once again to Mrs. Evans. "Sorry to you too," he said sincerely. "I just assumed, you know…"

"You're forgiven," she said immediately, a bright smile on her face. Then she jumped to her feet, clapping her hands excitedly. "Blaine, honey, do you want to stay for dinner? I'll make whatever you guys want. Oh! And quick, come here, I want a picture of the two of you!"

"Oh. My God." Sam groaned as his mother tugged his arm, trying to pull him off of the couch. "Mom, _why_ do you want a picture of us right now?"

She stopped pulling at his arm and stood with her hands on her hips. "Because I didn't get one for your first date so now I'm reconstructing the past. Now come on." And she left the room with one last laugh at the look on Sam's face.

Blaine echoed her mirth, winding his arm around his boyfriend's shoulders. "I like your mom more and more every time I see her," he said.

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "She's absolutely crazy. No wonder where Stacey gets it."

"Aw, come on. She's just happy for us." Blaine closed the two-inch gap between them, moving his knees to straddle Sam under his legs and bracing his arms against the back of the couch. "Now where were we before she walked in?"

Sam smiled up at him. "Right about here."


	23. Distasteful

****_Hi! I'm sorry for my absence for basically the past month-Nanowrimo kind of swallowed me whole. I hope to get back to posting somewhat regularly now that it's winding down._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>XXIII. Distasteful<strong>

"Hey."

Blaine jumped and slammed his locker closed with a _bang_. "Oh, hi, Sam." He pressed his back against the cold metal of the locker in an attempt to hide the front of it.

Sam leaned against the locker next to Blaine's, eyes narrowing with suspicion and concern. "What's wrong?"

Damn. He'd noticed.

Blaine suddenly became very interested in the ground, unconsciously biting his lip, then stopping as he realized what he was doing and looking away from Sam. "It's nothing."

"Come on, Blaine. What don't you want me to see?"

He shrugged. "It's really nothing. Sammy. Are you ready to go?"

"Not until you show me what you're hiding," he replied with a shake of his head. "Come on, Blaine."

It was this, this repetition, the pleading in Sam's voice that showed he actually _cared,_ that urged Blaine to finally step away from his locker and expose the word scrawled over the green metal.

_Queer_.

He watched as Sam stood staring for a full minute, anger rising as a red flush in his cheeks and hands balling into fists.

"Who did this?" he asked, and his voice was terrifyingly calm and level. When Blaine was silent, he sighed. "Blaine. Do you know who did this?"

Blaine shook his head, eyes flicking back to stare at the floor, at the scuffs from shoes and tiny pockmarks from girls' heels. He crossed his arms over his chest to keep himself from meeting Sam's eyes. "It could have been anyone."

"This isn't the first time it's happened, is it?"

Blaine silently shook his head again. "It's only Sharpie," he said quietly. "The janitors always get rid of it."

And it was true; the janitors knew to look for distasteful graffiti on his locker as well as they knew to look for Blaine in their first-floor closet.

"That doesn't make it okay," Sam replied, still with the same measured tone to his voice.

"What are you thinking about?" Blaine asked wearily. "There's really nothing—"

Sam swung a strap of his backpack off of his shoulder, turning it to face him and unzipping a side pocket.

"What are you doing?"

Sam ignored him, rummaging in the pocket with one hand until he pulled out a thick black Sharpie. Holding it out to Blaine with a grin, he asked, "Would you like to do it, or should I?"

Blaine hesitated for a confused second, then took the marker. A slow grin spread across his face to match Sam's.

"Go on," he said.

That was all the prompting Blaine needed. He took a deep breath, turned, and marched back to his locker, the word growing bigger and bigger with each step until it bore over him like something sinister, something threatening.

And with a shaking hand, he uncapped the Sharpie, looked back to Sam, and scrawled just underneath the word:

_And proud!_


	24. Want

**XXIV. Want**

Sam was used to not getting the things he wanted. With two younger siblings, two working parents, and an often precarious financial situation, there was no room for frivolous things like a collection of guitars or vintage comic books or classic Star Wars DVDs—the original versions, not those irreverent re-mastered ones, because everyone knows Han shoots at Greedo first.

Sam was used to not getting the things he wanted, but that was okay, because that's all they were—wants. Trivial things, things he would be able to get when he was older and done with school and successful and rich.

But then there was Blaine, and the definition of _want_ reached a whole different level.

It was Friday, it was last period, and it was English; there was no surprise that Sam's mind was wandering, not even bothering to try to decipher the black squiggles on the page he was supposed to be reading. What _was_ surprising—though not necessarily unpleasant—was _where_ Sam's mind was wandering.

He pictured Blaine sitting in math class, furrowing his eyebrows in concentration. Maybe he was tapping his foot under his desk, jiggling his leg ever so slightly to keep the beat to the song he had in his head; Blaine always had a song in his head. Maybe his big melted-hazel eyes were scanning the blackboard. Maybe the end of his pencil was between his teeth, maybe he was leaving bite marks on the wood.

Maybe he was thinking of Sam, too.

It was Friday, it was last period, and Sam only wanted one thing: for the clock to move faster, for that bell to ring, to see if his prediction was right.


	25. Lurking

**XXV. Lurking**

Blaine let out a surprised _hmm!_ as Sam pressed him against the car.

"What are you doing?"

"Kissing you."

Blaine let himself sink into Sam's kiss for one blissful second, then placed his fingertips on his chest to gently push him away.

Sam made a soft noise of protest as their lips parted. "What's wrong?"

Blaine shook his head.

"Not here."

"Why not? There's no one around." And he leaned in, once again brushing their lips together, but this time Blaine didn't let it go on.

"Sammy. Not here."

He immediately stopped at the tone in Blaine's voice.

"What's wrong?" he asked again, the playful smile fading from his face.

"It's the school parking lot."

"And it's empty."

"Doesn't mean people couldn't be lurking." Blaine flicked his eyes to the left, the right, scoping out the lot half-filled with cars but completely devoid of students.

Sam's smile returned. "Has anyone ever told you you're a bit paranoid?"

Blaine ducked away from him and opened the passenger door. "I'm serious! Trust me. You think no one's around, you think it's safe to go, and then you find out you're wrong and then you get jumped and you think to yourself, if only I had waited a little bit longer."

Sam hesitated a fraction of a second before placing a hand on Blaine's shoulder. Blaine didn't turn back towards him.

"Is it right to guess that that's happened to you before?"

Blaine swung his bag off of his shoulder and tossed it into the backseat. "And for much less than kissing a boy, too. To be honest, it pisses me off a little bit. What have I ever done to them?"

It took until Blaine ducked into the car and closed the door harshly that Sam realized he hadn't wanted an answer.


	26. Europe

_So I have to be honest, this one gave me quite a bit of trouble. I would just sit and stare at the word "Europe" on an otherwise blank document, until a few days ago I was dancing around to Forever Yours by Alex Day and my sister pointed out that he's British, which is, well, European. So while this drabble has otherwise nothing else to do with Europe, I took the chorus to the song and used it to write an awesome day in the lives of Blam._

**XXVI. Europe**

_Remember the time when we stole the whole day?_

_And nobody knows it, we took it away, _

_And it will be forever mine, _

_And it will be forever yours _

_Now we own the night, and it can't be undone,_

_We'll never forget how it feels to be young,_

_Cause it will be forever mine, _

_And it will be forever yours _

Sam had learned by now to rely on Saturdays, to look forward to them with a fervor that far outweighed that of even the most sleep-deprived student. The week was bogged down with school and work and dangerous hallways, and Sundays were mostly taken up by church and then having to hang around with Stacey and Stevie.

But Saturdays.

Saturdays were when Blaine woke him with a phone call at the _obscene_ hour of nine, when Sam groaned and mumbled excuses for staying snug and warm in bed, when Blaine had to either incessantly chatter in his ear or threaten him with increasingly unpleasant scenarios until he sighed and swung his feet onto the floor; both always worked.

Fifteen minutes later Blaine would be waiting for him, sitting on the steps of his porch; Sam would honk the horn as he turned onto Blaine's street, and he would sprint across the front lawn, tear open the passenger's side door, and literally dive into the seat. Sometimes head first. And when he popped back up, his smile never failed to stop Sam's heart.

Today was no different. The Blaine from yesterday, the weekday Blaine, the reserved, terse Blaine swallowed up by an oversized sweatshirt, he was gone, replaced with a bright show of white teeth, of crinkled eyes and fitted sweaters and bow ties. The bullies' Blaine had been replaced with Sam's, and thank God.

He leaned over and pressed soft lips to the corner of Sam's mouth. "So what are we doing today?"

Sam laughed; it was always like this, with Blaine so eager to just get out of the house that the planning stopped after _step 1: wake up; step 2: meet Sam outside._

"I was thinking…food?"

"Only if you share pancakes with me."

Sam made a face. "You know I don't—"

"Yes, I know you don't, you only ever get eggs or toast or other equally boring things but come _on_ it's Saturday and football's been over for a week now. Do you _ever_ eat anything unhealthy? Besides Doritos," Blaine added as Sam started to answer.

Sam laughed and gave a shrug. "Sometimes."

"But not enough. Come on, I want pancakes and so do you."

Sam drove to their favorite diner reluctantly, but of course Blaine turned out to be right, as he did more often than not; Sam really _did_ want pancakes.

"See?" He exaggerated the movement of fork to mouth, chewing and swallowing. "I do not only eat boring things."

"Verdict's still out on that one; pancakes aren't exactly what you'd call exotic." Blaine grinned up at him teasingly from his place next to Sam in the booth. "But yes, I'm very proud of you."

"You better be."

"I am."

They dissolved in laughter then, because they were so not funny but they were _hilarious_ and even though their thighs were already touching they scooted closer because they _could._ Because this section of the diner was mostly empty, because they were a few towns over and nobody here would know them anyway.

And as long as they were near it…

"Sam, I don't know…" Blaine glanced around the parking lot hesitantly as Sam parked. "I've never done this before."

"You've never been paintballing before? What, too scared?" Sam winked, teasing.

Blaine shrugged. "Just never had anyone to go with."

A smile lit up Sam's face, and he pulled Blaine from the car. "Well, now you have me. So come on!"

* * *

><p>Blaine poked at a large, splotched bruise on his arm. "Ow."<p>

"Oh, come on, stop being a baby."

"You're not the one who got nailed from five feet away." He plunked himself down on the couch in Sam's living room.

Sam turned from where he knelt at the DVD player with true guilt in his eyes. "I'm sorry, you know it was an accident, you surprised me and I didn't mean—"

"Hey, calm down. I'll get you back next time."

Their smiles met each other as Sam joined Blaine on the couch.

"So…._ Episode IV?"_

"No, I thought we'd start with the first one." Blaine deadpanned, and then watched as Sam's face grew more and more horrified; finally, Blaine couldn't do it anymore and let himself break first into a smile and then hysterical laughter.

Sam put a hand to his heart and breathed deeply. "You can't give me a heart attack like that! What if you had been serious, Blaine? I don't think we could have survived something like that."

"Wow, you really _are_ that serious about this, aren't you?" Blaine laughed and huddled into Sam's side.

A red hue tinged his cheeks. "Blaine, it's _Star Wars._ How could I not be serious about it?"

"Oh no, I completely understand, don't worry." And he added something under his breath as he plucked the controller from Sam's fingers and pressed play.

"What was that?"

"I said, it's really nice to have someone else who does, too."

Sam added that to the list of the countless times where Blaine had the power to completely stop his heart.

_This will be forever mine_

_This will be forever yours_

_Now we own the night and it can't be undone_

* * *

><p>Forever Yours by Alex Day<p> 


	27. Foreign

****Blaine is regular font  
>Sam is <em>italicized<em>

**XXVII. Foreign**

_Are you understanding any of this?_

A little.

_How?_

I've picked up a little French over the years.

_Again… how?_

Well I've been taking it since seventh grade, I would hope I'd be able to follow at least some of this movie.

_…You understand all of it, don't you. You just don't want to brag._

…Maybe?

_Help! What the hell is going on? What did the guy just say?_

Uh well that's his wife he's talking to and she's babbling about the wedding ring she thinks she lost and he just told her how much money it cost him.

_I can't believe you can understand French._

Now he's saying, "No, you're not inadequate, don't ever think that."

"We'll find it, don't worry."

_Really? Then why is he yelling and why does he look so angry?_

Now he's saying, "You're absolutely beautiful."

_You are a terrible translator. I'm starting to doubt your abilities._

Now he's saying, "I can't believe you would doubt my abilities. And you're still beautiful."

_ What did his wife just scream?_

"Why yes, thank you, I do indeed know I am smart and beautiful."

_Blaine._

Yes?

_You're not helping._

Okay now the man's saying, "Stop getting caught up on what the characters are saying. You're not responsible for knowing the dialogue, you're responsible for understanding the cinematography."

_Seems a little out of character, don't you think?_

Pierre is an extremely deep and complex character, Sam. You never know what he's going to do next.

_He's predictable. He's always angry._

You are obviously not understanding the cinematography.

Do you want to know what Pierre's saying now?

_Not really._

He's saying, "Sammy, stop making faces at Blaine or else the teacher will notice you texting in class and confiscate both your phones."

_That must be complicated to say in French._

Quite.

_I hate this._

"Don't worry. By the time the foreign language unit ends, Blaine will make you love them."

Well said, Pierre.


	28. Sorrow

_Hello there! Sorry for the large gap between prompts. This week I'm done getting my ass kicked by math tests, psychology midterms, SATs, and friends' acapella competitions, so I'm hoping to get a lot more of this fic done! As always, thank you._

**XXVIII. Sorrow**

Stacey peered up at Blaine from where she sat cross-legged on the floor. Goldie lazed next to her, both for once operating at less than a million miles an hour.

"Why are you sad?" she asked bluntly.

Blaine blinked and quickly slapped what he hoped was a convincing smile on his face.

"Who says I'm sad?"

"I think it's called 'body language,'" Stacey mused, sweet and innocent as anything as she absently scratched Goldie's head. "That's how I know."

"What am I doing?" Blaine uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly, genuinely curious.

She shrugged and turned to nuzzle her face in the glisteningly soft fur of Goldie's side. As she did, Blaine exhaled and allowed the smile to drop from his face, settling himself back against the couch cushions.

And Stacey whirled around, her blonde hair flying into her face, and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"There!"

Blaine started. "What?"

"_That's_ what you're doing."

She sighed as he stared at her blankly, uncomprehending.

"You're not smiling," Stacey explained patiently. "Whenever you're around me, you smile, but you're not right now. So you're sad. It's called in...no, de…something duck-tive reasoning. Sammy tried to explain it to me but I forget what it was."

Blaine let out a soft laugh. "You know why I'm sad?" he asked. "It's because I don't have a smart little sister like you."

She squealed as he lifted her up and began tickling her. The golden retriever at his feet flicked her ear at the sound but otherwise ignored it.

"Are you sad because Sammy's not here?" Stacey asked after a minute, when her fit of giggles had died down. "That's why Goldie's sad, you know." Then, before Blaine could answer: "Or is it because my mommy's not paying you to babysit me?"

"That is exactly it," Blaine replied, keeping his face straight and serious. "I am devastated by the fact that I _volunteered_ to babysit you while your mom worked and Sam took Stevie out, and now I'm stuck here having absolutely no fun and not even getting paid for it."

Stacey stared right back at him, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. "Really?"

"Yes."

She kept staring for a few more seconds, then a big grin grew on her face.

"You're funny. I can't wait until you're my brother. Then we can play together all the time."

Blaine cracked a smile. "And when will that be?"

"When you and Sam get married, silly!"

He laughed, but he hoped the tinge of sorrow that was creeping into his chest wasn't perceptible in his voice. If Stacey picked up on it—which, knowing her, she had—she did not point it out; instead, she launched herself at Blaine with a shriek and began tickling him mercilessly, effectively distracting him from his melancholia.


	29. Urban

**XXIX. Urban**

Sam lounged upside down on Blaine's bed, his socked feet resting against the wall and his head and shoulders hanging off the edge. He closed his eyes and savored the unusual feeling of the blood rushing to his brain.

"I still don't understand why I can't see you change," he called out to Blaine, to where he was hiding behind his closet door. "It's not like I never have before."

Blaine's chuckle drifted lazily into his ears. "It's not about that, silly," he called back. "You clearly don't understand what this modeling thing is about."

"You're right, I don't."

The hinges of the closet door creaked, but before Sam opened his eyes, Blaine's voice stopped him.

"Ah, not yet! You can't be upside down when you behold this glorious-ness, Sam!"

So Sam laughed and righted himself on the bed, folding his legs pretzel-style and leaning against the wall. "Can I open my eyes now?"

"Yep!"

So he did, and once he did he never wanted to close them again.

Blaine flung his arms to the side and shifted his weight, popping his right hip out in an exaggerated display of sass. "Well?"

Sam felt the wide grin grow on his face. "Hot."

And without warning, Blaine launched himself onto his queen-sized bed, landing half next to and half on top of his boyfriend. Sam yelped in surprise and fell to the side as Blaine landed, and they flailed on the bed for a moment in a tumble of limbs and shrieks of laughter.

"I stand before you in an outfit worthy of _royalty,_" Blaine huffed as soon as he'd caught his breath, "and all you can say is _hot?"_

Sam rolled one last time and ended up raised on his forearms, his torso hovering above Blaine's and their legs tangling together. "I wasn't aware royalty wore Urban Outfitters, but yep!" He bent down to plant a loud kiss on his forehead. "Oh, come on, have you ever seen your ass in skinny jeans?" He laughed again as a tinge of red spread through Blaine's cheeks.

"What about the Henley?" he asked excitedly, large, hopeful eyes meeting the ones above him.

Sam glanced downwards. "I have no idea what a Henley is, but if it's what you have on right now, then I have absolutely no objections."

"That's what I like to hear."

And Blaine wrapped his arms around Sam's neck and pulled him downwards into a playful kiss, a kiss that tasted like Cherry Coke, a kiss that was altogether too shallow and too short.

"Oh, quiet," Blaine admonished as he pulled away and Sam whined a regretful noise. "Modeling does not entail making out, you know."

"But—"

"Hush. We're doing short sleeves next. And tighter jeans. And if you're good, after that we'll move on to underwear."


	30. Rain

**XXX. Rain**

Blaine cursed as yet another puddle soaked through his sneaker and sent him stumbling until he regained his balance.

"Tell me again why we're out jogging in the middle of a monsoon?" he asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the _tingtinting_ of raindrops hitting cars and roofs. "This is madness!"

"You're the one who volunteered to help me work off the Doritos I ate yesterday," Sam retorted. "Actually, it was you who tempted me with them in the first place."

"And it was you who gave in to the temptation."

Sam steered Blaine into larger puddle with a laugh, effectively wiping the smirk off of his face.

"Besides, if you let a little rain stop you, next thing you know you're finding excuses every day. And trust me, that's a hard cycle to pull yourself out of."

They slowed as they approached the end of the sidewalk to let a line of cars cross the intersection. Blaine watched, mesmerized, as windshield wipers viciously swept back and forth, working in hyper drive to clear the water from the cars' windows. The rain pounded harder.

"I'm starting to regret my resolution to start exercising with you."

Sam shot him both a grin and a playful punch in the arm. "Negativity does nothing to help you, my young Padawan."

Blaine bowed his head, a teasing smile playing at his lips. "Yes, Master."

Sam's laughter cut clearly through the maelstrom of raindrops. "Ooh, 'Master.' I like the sound of that."

"You want me to rise up and eventually kill you?"

"Who says you're Anakin?"

"Who're you, then?"

"Luke Skywalker, of course."

Blaine covered his mouth with his hand and breathed heavily, trying and failing to withhold a snigger between Darth Vader breaths. "Luke, I am your father!"

Sam punched him again. "You're not Anakin!"

"Then who am I?"

The last car slowly rolled past them; Sam narrowed his eyebrows in deep thought as they set off again, feet pounding rhythmically on the rain-slick pavement.

"Chewbacca," he announced after a full minute, then glanced over to Blaine for approval.

"Um…why?"

"No listen, I have this all figured out." Sam led the way to the turn onto his street, and both of them couldn't help but let out sighs of relief when the Evans' house came into view. "I mean, he's got a lot on you in the size department, but let's go through the checklist. Cute? Check. Fierce? Check. Loyal? Check. All-around awesome? Check. Iconic? Check."

Blaine snorted. "Iconic?"

"Yeah. You know, when people think of _Star Wars, _they think of Darth Vader, Yoda, or Chewie. And don't even try to deny that you're going to be the face of some awesome Broadway hit ten years from now."

"You're crazy—"

"I said don't try to deny it."

Blaine smirked, his cheeks slightly red in the rain, and gently shoved Sam's shoulder. "Whatever you say, Master."


	31. Flower

**XXXI. Flower**

Sam had no idea how he'd ended up at the local florist. He also had no idea how he'd ended up at the local florist with his _mom._

"How about these?" She held up a handful of dark-colored flowers of a tulip-looking variety, bundling the stems together to make a small bouquet. "Would Dad like these, you think?"

Sam shrugged. "They seem a little…I don't know, boring. Does Dad like boring? Does Dad even like _flowers?_"

"Well, he married me, so I would say no to boring," Mrs. Evans said with a smirk. "And of course he likes flowers, everyone likes flowers. So what do you think, brighter colors?"

Before Sam could answer, she set off deeper into the store, appraising more vivid roses and other flowers Sam couldn't identify. He trailed behind her uselessly, shrugging and making noncommittal grunts when she asked his opinion.

"Mom," he said finally, "just because I'm dating a boy doesn't mean I'm magically into flowers."

Her face visibly brightened. "Oh! Let's get some for Blaine! What does he like, roses, tulips, daffodils maybe? Or maybe he's more of a lily kind of guy. Come on, help me look!"

"Mom." Sam barely kept the mortification from his face. "We are _not_ getting flowers for Blaine."

"Oh, why not? I'm sure if _he_ was in a flower shop he'd come back with a bouquet for you that wouldn't fit through the door."

Sam's mind drifted for a moment, drifted to an image of Blaine with his arms full of vibrant flowers and how that was probably more than accurate, and the smile must have shown on his face because—

"Ha!" His mom clapped her hands in victory and pointed at him. "See? You know I'm right. And it would be _so cute!"_

"You're personal investment in my boyfriend's adorableness kind of makes me worry."

"It's so adorable when you call him adorable," she sighed. Then she plucked three flowers—yellow, pink, and red—and shoved them into Sam's hands. "I'm making you make me buy them for you. Tell me to buy them for you."

Sam shrugged and sighed in resignation, unable to deny the hopeful and expectant look on his mom's face. And anyway, flowers were a good gesture. Romantic, right? "Fine. But wait, hold on…"

He quickly swapped the pink flower for a deep purple one, then handed them over. "I demand that you buy these."

"Well, if you insist." And she grabbed the flowers she'd chosen for her husband and waltzed off to the counter.

* * *

><p>"I want you to tell your father soon."<p>

Sam nearly dropped the now perfectly wrapped and ribbon-tied flowers in his hand. "What?"

His mom, instead of starting up the car, turned to look at him; the sincerity in her face was rare, and to be honest, a little scary because of it.

"It's getting hard to keep it from him, Sammy. Stacey and Stevie have tried really hard to keep quiet about it, but it's only a matter of time before they say something. Heck, it's only a matter of time before I say something."

His eyes widened, and the tiniest prickle of anger appeared in his chest. "You wouldn't, Mom."

"Oh, not on purpose! But think about it. Blaine's over at our place all the time. How long until someone slips up and gives it away? And do you really want to have to worry about that? Do you really want to hide something like this from your own dad?"

Sam mumbled something under his breath, cheeks reddening, and quickly turned to look out the window.

"I didn't catch that, what?"

A deep breath. "I'm terrified of what he'll say."

"Well, what do you think he's going to say?"

"That's the thing, I don't know. He might be cool with it, who knows? Or he might be like…. Blaine told me about when he came out. He says it wasn't pretty."

His mother placed a reassuring hand on his arm, prompting him to look at her again.

"Sammy, just tell him. I'm not asking you to do it today, or tomorrow, or this week. Just…soon. I just don't want you to have to hide, especially in your own house. And I promise, everything will be fine."

Sam rested his temple against the cool glass of the car window. "I'll think about it…I'll talk to Blaine about it tonight. I want his advice."

"See, I helped you out! You can make a trade—pretty flowers for life advice." Mrs. Evans clapped her hands in delight.

"You're such a dork, Mom," Sam said with a chuckle, the tension in his muscles somewhat lessening.

She stuck her tongue out as she turned the key in the ignition. "Now you know where you get it from, sweetheart."


	32. Night

**XXXII. Night**

The flowers did more than Sam ever expected; they earned him a surprised laugh, a beaming smile, a full-on tackle of a hug. And—

"My parents aren't coming home until tomorrow afternoon," Blaine burst out breathlessly, standing on his doorstep and clutching the flowers in a nervous hand. "And so I was wondering if…if you'd like to…"

"Are you asking me to stay the night?" Sam wasn't sure what his heart was trying to do—burrow down to his stomach or jump out his throat?

"Yeah, I guess I am," Blaine said, and his chin lifted up a bit in self-satisfaction. "Sam Evans, would you like to stay over tonight?"

Sam's heart made a decision and attempted to beat out of his chest.

"I would be honored, Blaine Anderson."

Smile still glowing on his face, Blaine gave a sweeping bow and offered Sam his arm; they fit the crooks of their elbows together and waltzed through the door—well, Blaine waltzed. Sam just laughed and trailed slightly behind, reveling in the weekend-confidence of his boyfriend while he could.

"Will your parents be okay with it?" Blaine asked as he led Sam into the white-carpeted living room.

Oh, right. His parents.

"It's worth a shot asking them?" And then a thought descended on him like a dark cloud. "But…"

Blaine paused mid-step. "Uh oh. 'But' doesn't sound very good."

"My mom wants me to tell my dad soon," Sam explained, and sat down heavily on the Andersons' couch. "About us…about me."

"Oh." Blaine let out a low whistle and settled next to him. "Are you going to do it?"

Sam shrugged. "I mean, Mom brought up good points…. and he's my dad, you know? He's got a right to know."

"I'll go with you when you tell him. If you want me there, of course." Blaine put a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. "I've met your dad, and if it counts for anything I think he'll take it well."

"Let's hope," Sam sighed, leaning into Blaine's shoulder. "But for now the thing is, if I ask to stay over here, my dad won't think anything about it because he doesn't know we're together. He doesn't even know I'm…not straight. And then when I come out to him…"

"He's going to think you somehow betrayed his trust?" Blaine said gently. "But your mom's cool with us, right? And we'll promise to be"—his face flushed slightly red and he stumbled over his next few words—"we'll, uh, promise to be…responsible, won't we?"

Sam felt his face flush redder than Blaine's. "Yeah, of course…but when you say 'responsible'…um…"

Blaine cut him off with a chuckle and shifted to nuzzle into his shoulder. "Thus commences the awkward talk, huh? I'll try to make it end faster, here: Do you, Sammy Evans, want to have sex with me?"

Sam's heart jerked violently upwards, pulling a sharp breath with it. He spluttered for a minute, then finally regained control of his voice and managed to get out, "I uh…it's not a matter of wanting to, because y-you know I do, it's j-just—"

Blaine interrupted once again with a quiet laugh. "Adorable as it is, you don't have to stutter like that. I'm not ready either."

"Oh." The strange worry he hadn't been aware of until that moment melted away, leaving a wonderful relief and gratitude. "So tonight…"

"Will be the best sleepover you've ever had." Blaine slipped his fingers into the pocket of Sam's jeans, pulled out the cell phone tucked inside, and flipped it into Sam's palm. "Now call your mom."

"When she starts joke-lecturing me I'm putting it on speaker. I refuse to suffer alone."

"Deal."


	33. Wrath

****_Just a warning that this one got a little more angsty than intended._

* * *

><p><strong>XXXIII. Wrath<strong>

If someone were to ask Blaine what he liked least about himself, the answer would be on his tongue before the question was even finished. And sometimes, depending on the day, the answer to what he liked best would be the same:

His temper. The overwhelming, paralyzing _rage_ that cracked his bones and clouded his vision and built a scream in his throat and reminded him, on those days when everything banded together to drown him in numbness, that he was capable of feeling anything at all.

If that was the best part, then the worst was his complete inability to _do_ anything about it. The way it threw his insides into turmoil while his outside was completely immobilized. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it physically hurt to hold it in and prevent it from exposing its ugliness to the world; he forced it to thrash in the depths of him, never surfacing, never showing…until one day he let it.

Blaine heard the slam of body against metal, and his muscles instinctively tensed before his brain could tell them they were being illogical—sound did not precede pain, but rather coincided with it. So why was he not pressed against the row of lockers, bruises forming on his back and someone's laughter in his face?

All this passed through his brain in the millisecond before he turned his head and his heart froze in his chest as flames sprang up to lick around it.

Twenty feet down the hallway, Sam yelled something and pushed back against a tall boy; Blaine realized with a jolt that it was Ross Frye. The two grappled for a moment, Sam snarling and shouting, Ross laughing and taunting, until there was one final _crack_ of something hitting metal, and before Blaine could process what was happening, Sam was on the ground, dazedly surprised expression on his face, and Ross's footsteps were fading away around the corner.

And Blaine felt it—the anger—snap his veins and tear his muscles, shred skin and split bones. This time, though, the paralysis only lasted for a second. This time, his body rebelled against the ice inside it and began sprinting down the hallway, around the corner. After Ross, shouting threats and insults the whole way.

It took him another hallway, another corner, and no sign of the bastard to realize what he'd forgotten in his stupid, blind fury: Sam.

And how could he, really? What kind of boyfriend would just run straight past—and oh god, he was probably hurt, wasn't he? Sam was hurt, and Blaine had just _sprinted by him,_ sprinted right by him, fueled purely by wrath…

He was gripped by immobility again then, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of _stupid stupid stupid _his brain was pelting at him.

"Blaine?"

The hand on his shoulder was shaking. Or wait, no; it was his own body that was shaking, wracked by the overwhelming anger still tying his insides into knots.

"Hey, are you okay?" The hand on his shoulder turned him around, and now he was face to face with Sam. Sam, whose eyes were huge and round and concerned. Sam, whose first question after getting his head slammed against a locker was are _you_ okay. Sam, who did not deserve somebody as poisonous as Blaine.

"Was that the first time he's messed with you?" The poison seeped out in a barely controlled breath.

Sam hesitated for a moment, then gave his head a slow shake. "No. But it's the first time it's gotten that…physical."

Blaine bit back a loud curse, desperately trying to hold down the anger. For Sam.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I just left you back there after he hurt you…"

"Hey, I'm fine." Sam placed a hand gently on Blaine's cheek. "But are you?"

Blaine answered by wrapping his still-trembling arms around Sam, burying his face in his shoulder.

"I hate him," he seethed into the cotton of Sam's shirt. "I've never hated anyone before in my life, but I really think I hate him. And I want…. I want to…"

Sam placed a soft kiss to the top of Blaine's head. "Want to what?"

And now the fear broke through the rage, and Blaine moved away from Sam to meet his eyes. "I've never wanted to hurt anyone before like I want to hurt him."

Sam was silent for a full minute, eyes never wavering from Blaine's. Finally, he threaded their fingers together and began gently pulling Blaine up the hallway, back towards his still open locker.

"Here, let's get your stuff, and then I have an idea. It'll make you feel better."

"What is it?" Blaine asked warily, the shaking subsiding with the warmth of Sam's hand entwined with his own.

"Okay, so I know you like to sing when stuff like this happens. But something's telling me that's not going to be enough. So I was thinking…have you ever boxed before?"

A smile touched Blaine's face for the first time in what felt like years. "I can't say I have."

They reached Blaine's locker, and Sam bent to pick up the backpack from the ground and handed it over. "Would you like to learn how?"

"I'd love to. But to be honest…"

"What?" Worry once again creased Sam's forehead, pulling a laugh from the depths of Blaine.

"You're making me feel a lot better already."

Sam matched his grin. "I promise, a punching bag is me times a thousand; you can't hit me."

Blaine glanced down at their hands still linked together, and laughed again. "I think you're right. Even if I wanted to, I never could."


	34. Moon

****_I do believe this has been the longest gap between chapters. My only (poor) excuse is that I am awful at time management. So I apologize for the long wait, and also the fact that I actually have no idea what this is._

_This is what I imagine happened after Chapter 32-Night._

* * *

><p><strong>XXXIV. Moon<strong>

Blaine always slept with the curtains closed. There was no particular reason for it—it was just something he did, a part of the nightly routine: shower, brush teeth, change into sweats and one of his brother's t shirts, close curtains, turn off light, get into bed. Sleep.

Sam always slept with the curtains open. Curtains open, moonlight pouring in, and, on the warm days, the window itself thrown up to let in heat and breeze and summer sounds. With Sam, there was no routine, only the end goal of sleep, and rest, and dreams.

Tonight, though, the end goal was tweaked, and all routines eradicated. Tonight, the window in Blaine's bedroom, the curtains, the moon, everything, all stood forgotten except each other—the newness of another body in bed, another voice, another breath, the fleeting awkwardness that steadily morphed into the kind of ease that had Blaine walking in from the shower in nothing but a towel, Sam on the bed in a tank top and boxers.

Sam watched Blaine get dressed, and it was all blushing uncertainty and darting eyes and Blaine's witticisms and Sam's far from eloquent replies. Arching eyebrows, smile meeting smirk.

The subsequent kisses were quite the same in their not-so-innocence, and with the moon as their only witness, they held nothing back—not tongue or teeth or sighs or moans. Awash in each other, it didn't take long for their promise to frost over everything, make them pause and cool down and almost, _almost_ consider changing their minds.

The idea was there, to simply forego caution and delve into desire, but it was exactly that—an idea. An incredibly appealing, tempting idea. A stupid idea; not here, not now, not after the simplicity of their earlier decision.

So they did the next best thing, and the next, and the next, until exhaustion finally overtook them; eyelids drooping, Blaine huddled himself into Sam's side, reveling in the beautiful feeling of _together_ as Sam entwined their fingers and pulled him closer. Forgotten moonlight streamed in through the forgotten window, and the boys paid no attention to the illumination; if they did, Sam would have seen the way Blaine's eyelids fluttered to fight off sleep, his lips still curved in a quiet smile, and Blaine would have noticed the beautiful shadows that played across Sam's side as his chest expanded with each quiet breath. As it were, the light and shadows and smiles lay forgotten, drowned out by the overwhelming sense of peace that resonated around them—something they did not need eyes for. So they closed them and, pressed close against each other, they slipped into a serene sleep.


	35. Walk

****_So guys apparently it's Christmas time?_

* * *

><p><strong>XXXV. Walk<strong>

To be honest, Blaine was not a huge Christmas guy.

No, wait, scratch that. Blaine was not a huge _Anderson_ Christmas guy—that one day of the year when he had to sit hands-folded at the dining room table, make small talk about school and snow and Jesus and what have you. When Cooper may or may not come home, when aunts and uncles and cousins traipsed into the house and fussed over every little thing—"Why _Blaine_ how much you've _grown_ since last year, we almost didn't recognize you!"

(And then, when they thought he couldn't hear—"Are you sure he's not going to grow anymore, Lacey? A shame that he won't be tall like his father and brother.")

The worst thing about all this was that it started weeks before the twenty-fifth of December; it started the first week of the month, with the first installment of relatives from Indiana that began the ceaseless trickle of family he barely knew. Sure, some cousins were okay, but they were either too young or too old, too rough-and-tumble, too boring. So Blaine, as usual, ended up alone.

"What do you mean you hate Christmas?"

Sam's voice was so loud in its incredulity that Blaine had to hold the phone away from his ear.

"I don't hate Christmas. I hate having to deal with Christmas."

"So you're telling me you hate all those specials? The little clay-mation Rudolph and Kris Kringle and stuff?"

Blaine pressed himself into the wall to avoid the cousin hurtling towards him—Tommy, he thought, or Tegan—and sighed.

"I just never really got into them, you know?"

And before he knew it, Blaine was sandwiched between Stacey and Stevie on the Evans' couch, TV singing while a clay penguin danced on the screen.

_Put one foot in front of the other…_

"I see that smile." Sam's voice floated from the floor where he was leaning against Blaine's leg. "There's no way you can possibly hate this."

_And soon you'll be walking 'cross the floor…_

Blaine was indeed smiling, smiling in spite of himself but smiling all the same, because it really was impossible not to, not with two adorable little kids snuggled into his sides and Sam's comfortable weight pressing against him and a young clay ginger Kris Kringle singing an inspirational song.

_Put one foot in front of the other,_

_ And soon you'll be walking out the door!_


	36. Precious

_****Once again, I apologize for the long gap, and as much as I'd like to make excuses, none of them are actually good. Regardless, I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>XXXVI. Precious<strong>

They were enveloped in each other before the front door closed behind them: Blaine backing Sam into the wall, fingers twisting in hair, teeth gently scraping skin…

It was just one of those days, you know?

"Aw, isn't that precious!"

Blaine made a muffled choking sound and jumped away from Sam, who had frozen and shot his eyes open at the unfamiliar voice.

"Cooper!" Blaine's voice was breathless, and he stepped in front of Sam in an oddly protective gesture. "What are you—weren't you—I mean, I thought—"

"Aren't you going to say hi? And introduce me to your…friend?"

Blaine tried and failed to calm the rapid beating of his heart. But he could deal with this, this was okay. After all, it was only Cooper; it could have been worse. Much worse.

"Hi, Coop," he said with a sigh. "This is my boyfriend, Sam. Sam, this is my brother Cooper."

"Nice to meet you, Sam!"

Blaine withheld a groan as Cooper traversed the room and swept Sam into a bear hug. It was just how his brother operated, everything grandiose and _all,_ but that didn't make it any less embarrassing.

"Uh, you too," Sam said when Cooper finally released him. "I've, uh, heard a lot about you."

"Well, I'd hope so. It's good Blaine talks to at least one of us."

At his pointed look, Blaine only shrugged, shifting his feet. Uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, things just got really busy, you know how it is…"

"Too busy to email? Or Facebook? Or tweet?"

"Well apparently you didn't, either." Blaine's eyes narrowed into a glare, and he felt Sam shift beside him.

"Should I…go?"

Without looking at him, Blaine grabbed Sam's hand and squeezed it, seeking comfort, seeking familiarity. Sam squeezed back, a wordless reassurance: it's okay. I'll stay.

"So did you guys have any…plans for this afternoon?" Cooper waggled an eyebrow in indelible Cooper fashion, and Blaine had to fight the urge to groan out loud.

"No," he said curtly. "Nothing planned."

"Great! Come on, then."

Cooper brushed past them towards the door, swinging a key ring around his finger.

"And go…where?"

He paused in the doorway, eyebrow raised. "Out to lunch, duh. It's about time you and I caught up, little brother."

"But Sam and I—"

"What, are you stupid? He's coming, too." With that, Cooper flipped his sunglasses down from his forehead to the bridge of his nose and disappeared outside.

Blaine sighed and turned to look at Sam. "I guess having Cooper as a third wheel isn't all that bad if he's paying, right? Let's go."


	37. See

_I fail as a human being. Hopefully with school out I won't be as miserable at time management!_**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>XXXVII. See<strong>

Sam wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up with a phone pressed to his ear, his heart beating fast, his mouth forming the words, "Can you come over? I'm going to tell him."

The silence on the other end of the line was shocked but short. "Whoa. Okay. Snap decision?"

"I just don't see the point in waiting any longer, I guess."

"Well, good for you, Sammy," Blaine said. "I'll see you in like, five minutes."

He didn't know how it had started, and he didn't know what made him keep going now. Maybe it was the slow reminder of _family _he'd witnessed today, seeing Blaine and Cooper start to be brothers again over sandwiches and salads, or maybe it was exactly what he'd said: nothing would come of putting it off except more stress, more acid pooling in his chest each time he thought about the unknown.

And so minutes later he found himself sandwiched on the couch between Blaine and Stevie, his mom resting on the arm and Stacey perched on his lap.

"Can't remember the last time we had a 'family meeting; like this, especially with a plus one." Mr. Evans nodded a greeting to Blaine as he lowered himself into the armchair across from them. There was a slight chuckle in his words, but the curiosity and suspicion on his face squeezed Sam's frantic heart even tighter. "Care to tell me what's going on?"

By now, Sam was used to eyes. Eyes drilling into him as he walked through the school hallways, eyes in class, eyes in town with Blaine. Eyes when he quoted obscure movie lines that no one understood. Sam was used to those kinds of eyes, the ones that saw him at the most superficial level. But this was different—when it was his family's eyes, all turned towards him, seeing right _through_ him—that was different, and that was terrifying.

"Dad…." Sam started, stopped, cleared his throat once. Twice. Linked his fingers in with Blaine's, a movement that began as unconscious but became pointedly purposeful. Blaine shot him a sideways glance; Sam saw it out of the corner of his eye but ignored it, caught between staring at his father's face and his shoes. Cleared his throat one more time.

"Sammy is stalling, Daddy, because for some reason he doesn't want to tell you that Blaine and him are in love."

Now all eyes turned to Stacey, who was staring straight at Mr. Evans, her face set with determination. Sam froze, feeling his whole being stutter with panic. Blaine tightened his grip on his hand.

"It's true, Dad. We've been dating for a few months now. I don't know if I'm…if I'm gay, or, or bi, or what—I'm still figuring it all out. But all I do know is that yes, I love Blaine, and I'm proud that he's my…my boyfriend, and I really hope this doesn't make you see me any differently because I'm still the same person. At least, I feel like the same person and I—"

Two quick but painful elbow jabs from either side of him—Stevie and Blaine—took the rambling words from Sam's lips and lifted his eyes up from the floor. Before he could register the sight of his father coming towards him, he felt himself be tugged from the couch, and he got a mouthful of his Mr. Evans' shirt as arms hugged him tightly. Then more confusion as Blaine somehow got pulled in too, leaving barely enough room to breathe.

"Why did you think I wouldn't be happy for you?" Mr. Evans' eyes, no longer questioning, no longer drilling, were bright as he released the two boys.

"I thought—" Sam spluttered, mind racing. "I mean, I thought—football, and everything, and you're just—"

His dad's laugh echoed through the room. "Sam, has anyone ever told you you're an idiot?"

Blaine put an arm around Sam's waist. "Don't worry, Mr. Evans, I've got that covered."

"See? I like him already," Mr. Evans said with another chuckle, then turned to Blaine. "Welcome to the family, kid. It's good to see my Sammy happy."

Blaine pulled Sam closer. "Got that covered too, sir."


	38. Abandoned

**XXXVIII. Abandoned**

Not for the first time—or the second, or tenth—Blaine found himself leaning against the side of a shop with a stabbing pain in his side and a pulsing throb in the soles of both feet. His face was flushed and red and sweaty; he felt altogether gross and unattractive. The only consolation was that Sam looked just as tired as Blaine felt.

"I told you you could do eight miles," Sam said, breathing hard. "I'm proud of you."

Blaine smiled and then coughed, throat too dry for words. Sam handed him a water bottle, and he slugged half of it down before speaking.

"Don't be too proud yet. We still have to get home without me keeling over and dying."

Sam leaned next to Blaine, poised to reply, but froze. "Did you hear that?"

"I'm having a hard time hearing anything but my blood in my ears."

"Shh, there it is again." Sam cocked his head to the side, eyebrows knitting closer together as he concentrated. "It sounds like…."  
>"What?" Blaine shook his head to clear it, but managed only to make the rushing in his ears louder.<p>

"It actually sounds like you when you're whining about running." Sam smirked and dodged Blaine's elbow, then took a few steps towards the alley between two buildings.

And Blaine heard it—a barely audible mewl, small and broken, echoing from the alleyway.

"Oh no!"

And with legs that still shook from running all those miles, Blaine dashed into the alley; something was hurt, and that something needed him.

There was just enough sunlight left in the day to illuminate the ground, the glass and trash that littered the concrete. And there, nestled against the brick of a wall—a tiny kitten, its grey fur interspersed with tufts of black. As Blaine approached, it opened its mouth wide and hissed, exposing its pink tongue in its fear. Blaine hesitated, then took another step forward, hand outstretched.

"Be careful," Sam warned from behind him. "What if it has rabies or something?"

"Aw, Sammy." Blaine took yet another cautious step; the kitten had stopped hissing, but was now eyeing them with mistrust. "She's obviously been abandoned. We should help her!"

He paused with his hand inches from the kitten's nose. It meowed softly, then pushed its tiny, fluffy head into Blaine's palm.

"See? She knows we're not going to hurt her."

Slowly, warily, Blaine scooped the kitten into his hands; it fit easily into his cupped palms.

"What should we do with her?" Sam ventured to place a finger or two on the kitten's skinny back, and smiled when it began to purr.

Blaine thought for a moment, stroking the kitten's chin with his index finger. "I'll take her home for now, then see what I can do for her. Don't worry, little fella," he said, raising the kitten to eye level, "I promise we're going to find you a home."

It meowed as if in response, and the warmth that spread over Blaine's face was enough to bubble love in Sam's chest; with no conscious thought, he pulled Blaine into a tight, one-armed hug, careful not to disturb the cat that was now huddled against his collarbone.

At Blaine's questioning look, Sam grinned and said simply, "Blaine Anderson, Champion of the Abandoned Fluffy Animals."

Blaine rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. "Alright Sam Evans, Fearer of Rabies, let's get going."


	39. Dream

_Feels good to be back :D_

* * *

><p><strong>XXXIX. Dream<strong>

Sam was no stranger to things falling asleep on him. There was Stevie, Stacey, his mother on random occasions, Goldie, strangers on plane rides, and once, back when they lived in Texas, a friend's hamster that had snuggled into the crook of his arm and made itself at home.

But never had a Blaine Anderson nestled into his side with a World History textbook, rested his head against his shoulder, and promptly conked out.

Sam stayed perfectly still despite the pins and needles starting to prickle in his leg, unwilling to disturb the peace that had settled into the slow up and down of Blaine's chest. The book had slipped from his hands and fallen to the floor, exposing paragraph after paragraph of tiny text; the last thing Sam wanted to do was wake Blaine and make him go back to _that._

A small meow preceded a grey and black kitten, cleaner and healthier than ever before, into the Anderson's living room. She padded across the floor on white-booted paws and stopped at Sam's feet, hesitant.

"Come on up, Coffee." Sam kept his voice low and patted the space next to him with the hand that was not currently held in Blaine's.

Coffee—whom Blaine had named on a ridiculous albeit endearing whim—paused for another moment, then sprang into Sam's lap. With another meow that buzzed into a purr, she nuzzled her head into his hand and curled into a tiny ball.

And so Sam found himself the sleeping place of _two_ small and adorable things. He also realized he no longer had the use of either of his hands, what with Coffee's head resting on one and the other's fingers loosely entwined with Blaine's. And his leg was still asleep.

So what was there to do except surrender to the comfort of the couch and let his own eyes fall closed?

* * *

><p>Forty-five minutes later, a bleary-eyed Blaine blinked away a dream and found himself sprawled on top of Sam, both of them horizontal on the Andersons' couch. Coffee was stretched out in the middle of his back, meowing threats whenever his body shifted. A laugh escaped him at the kitten's pathetic attempts at ferocity, which pulled a sleepy noise from Sam. Blaine immediately fell silent.<p>

"Sorry," he whispered.

Sam yawned without opening his eyes. "S'alright," he said. "Should probably get up anyway."

A minute passed, in which Sam neither spoke nor moved again and Blaine stifled more laughter.

"Or we can stay all comfy right here," he said eventually.

Sam mumbled something that sounded like, "Good idea."

Blaine ghosted a kiss on Sam's shoulder—the closest place he could reach—and let his body relax once again.

When they both woke up an hour later, they could not remember what they had dreamed about, only that it had been quiet and sweet, and perfect.


	40. 4:29 PM

I've always had this little headcanon of Sam singing "Stereo Hearts" to Blaine. When I decided to use it, I didn't think the rap part worked very well. So I looked for a fitting mashup and found one by Collin McLoughlin that combines "Stereo Hearts" by Gym Class Heroes, "Just Can't Get Enough" by Black Eyed Peas, and "The Lazy Song" by Bruno Mars. Link (on soundcloud dot com ): /freshoncampus/stereo-hearts-mashup  
>Enjoy!<p>

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><p><strong>XL. 4:29 PM (Or, Mocha)<strong>

Sam was early, and he didn't know what to do about it. Usually he met Blaine at their table, the one tucked into the corner closest to the small stage, with two cups of coffee already waiting and that big, goofy, happy-to-see-you smile.

But today Sam was early, and he panicked for a moment when he forgot his own coffee order. After a few long seconds, he told the barista to add his small cappuccino to Blaine's medium drip; she forced a "have a good day" through her obvious annoyance as she handed over the change and waved him over to wait.

He looked at his phone: 4:25.

By the time Sam had claimed the table in the corner, it was 4:29. Blaine should've been here by now; it wasn't like him to be this close to being late. But hey, everyone ran late every once in a while, right?

"Excuse me?" A static microphone noise resounded through the room. Sam looked up from his game of Tetris towards the platform near the table, and felt his jaw drop.

Everyone ran late every once in a while, except, apparently, for Blaine.

"Uh, hi," Blaine said from where he stood in the middle of the stage, a guitar slung around his shoulders with a plain black strap. He glanced over at Sam and gave a quick wink before turning back to the smattering of people scattered at the other tables. "My name's Blaine Anderson, and I'll be singing for you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings, and now, I guess, since I pestered Lily into letting me have a little preview this afternoon. So if I annoy you, you can blame her." He pointed to the barista behind the counter, who huffed a little and turned up her nose.

Sam watched in awe as Blaine then launched into a song, one he didn't recognize but was pleasantly poppy and upbeat; Blaine's voice mixed perfectly with the buzz of the coffee shop, just loud enough to draw attention away from the blender but not too overpowering as to distract from casual conversation. It was dark and sugared like mocha, sweetening every sip of Sam's cappuccino.

"Thank you," Blaine said after he'd played a handful of songs and the small applause had faded. "For this next one, I'm going to ask a special guest to come up and sing with me."

Sam felt the color drain from his face as Blaine once again turned to wink at him.

"Oh no, oh no no no," he said, shaking his head frantically. "Blaine, no, I—"

"Everyone, this is Sam." All eyes turned to look. "He's really good. Who thinks he should sing with me?"

Even Lily whooped and applauded from behind the counter. Sam's face burned hot.

Before he could protest any more, Blaine reached down to grab his hand.

"Just do exactly what we figured out yesterday," he said as he pulled him onto the stage. "It's going to be great!"

"I hate you."

"Good, channel that energy. Ready to go?"

Blaine was infuriating, absolutely infuriating; but Sam stood next to him and shared the microphone, and Blaine started strumming chords, and despite the shock and the onlookers and the pounding of his heart, Sam started the first verse:

_My heart's a stereo, it beats for you so listen close  
><em>_Hear my thoughts in every note, whoa-oh  
><em>_Make me your radio, turn me up when you feel low  
><em>_This melody was meant for you, sing along to my stereo_

He glanced over and caught the beam on Blaine's face as he played a short interlude. Blaine then turned to the growing crowd, anticipating their reaction.

_Honey got a sexy all steamin'  
><em>_She givin' hotness a new meanin'  
><em>_Perfection mama you gleamin'  
><em>_Inception you got a brother dreamin' dreamin'  
><em>_Damn baby I'm feignin'_

_I'm try'na holler at you, I'm screamin'  
><em>_Let me love you down this evenin'  
><em>_Let me love you love you know you are my demon_

Sam jumped in over the cheers.

_If I could only find a note to make you understand  
><em>_I'd sing it softly in your ear and grab you by the hand  
><em>_So keep it stuck inside your head, like your favorite tune  
><em>_And know my heart is like a stereo that plays for you_

_My heart's a stereo, it beats for you so listen close  
><em>_Feel my thoughts in every note, whoa-oh  
><em>_Make me your radio, turn me up when you feel low  
><em>_This melody was meant for you, sing along to my stereo_

He hadn't realized he'd been singing directly to Blaine until the other boy tore his eyes away to sing the next verse.

_Today I don't feel like doing anything  
><em>_I just want to lay in my bed  
><em>_Don't feel like picking up my phone,  
><em>_So leave a message at the tone  
><em>_Today I swear I'm not doing anything_

Again Sam sang over him:

_If I could only find a note to make you understand  
><em>_I'd sing it softly in your ear and grab you by the hand  
><em>_So keep it stuck inside your head, like your favorite tune  
><em>_And know my heart is like a stereo that plays for you_

Blaine stopped playing to place his hand over Sam's on the top of the microphone, and they harmonized the last a cappella refrain:

_My heart's a stereo, it beats for you so listen close  
><em>_Hear my thoughts in every note, whoa-oh  
><em>_Make me your radio, turn me up when you feel low  
><em>_This melody was meant for you, sing along to my stereo_

The coffee shop erupted in applause. The crowd had doubled in size as people who normally would have arrived and left stayed to listen, and Lily had called someone off of his break to help her fill the influx of coffee orders. Sam's heart was still trying to beat out of his chest.

Blaine threw his arm around Sam's shoulders. "Do you still hate me?"

"Of course."

"I thought so."

"Your time's up, hotshot!" Lily called. "Get your ass over here."

Blaine hopped down from the stage, pulling Sam with him. The people mostly went back to their coffee, except for a few who waited to say good job, but now the buzz in the shop was different somehow; smoother, sweeter, like mocha.

Lily shoved a styrofoam cup at Blaine when they reached the counter. "Here. The one your boyfriend got you must be cold by now, so I made you another drip."

"Thanks. This is Sam, by the way."

"Charming." And Lily turned on her heel, her raven-black ponytail flipping over one shoulder, and went back to the coffee machine.

"She's a lot friendlier when she's not on the job," Blaine said before Sam could speak. "She's the one that convinced her boss to give me the gig. By the way, was it a nice surprise?"

Sam swiped the coffee cup from Blaine's hands and stole a small sip. "Yeah, it was nice. But I'm still planning your murder."


	41. Citric Acid

_****I'm back! Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>XLI. Citric Acid<strong>

"Are you sure about this?" Blaine held up the box, eyeing it warily. "I mean, I'm not doubting you'd look amazing as a blond, but some people can tell right away when it comes from a bottle."

Sam pushed already wet bangs away from his forehead.

"I don't know, man," he said with a shrug, "It's time for a change, you know?"

"Right. And you're sure it's got nothing to do with Lily telling you your hair's boring?"

"No, course not."

But Sam spoke a little too quickly, and Blaine shook his head.

"It's not, by the way," he said with a soft chuckle. "But I'll say it again—you'll be as gorgeous as a blond as you are a brunette. Now lean back."

He would never admit it, but Blaine reveled in the faint rose that brushed over Sam's cheekbones as he leaned backwards to place his head under the faucet.

"I just can't believe you were going to let Stacey dump lemon juice on your head."

Sam shrugged again, closing his eyes to protect them from stray splatters of water. "Still think it's a good idea. It seems easier than all this." He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the expensive box of blond dye.

"Yeah, until you realize how fried your hair is."

"Says the man who's started loading his hair up with gel every morning."

Sam didn't need to open his eyes to picture the affronted look on Blaine's face.

"My hair gel is _moisturizing_ and _nourishing,"_ he said, more serious than joking. "_Lemon juice,_ on the other hand, is _not."_

"Okay, okay. Calm down, helmet head. Do you know what you're doing?"

Blaine opened the box and appraised the directions written on its side. All right, he thought, easy enough.

"Keep your eyes closed, Blondie," he said. "This stuff would probably hurt just as much as lemon juice."


End file.
